


True North

by Adrenalineshots, Jackfan2



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Gore, Horror, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 20:08:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adrenalineshots/pseuds/Adrenalineshots, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackfan2/pseuds/Jackfan2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New York's North Brother Island holds a past that the world has forgotten, secrets long dead and atrocities buried deep; but for those who suffered, there is no forgetting. Rumored to be haunted, six college kids challenge her decayed remains, only to vanish without a trace. An acquaintance from their past calls the Winchesters to investigate, pushing the brothers into a world where death is merely a stumbling block and the past is just a gateway to a future with the promise of revenge. Still reeling from his time in Hell, Dean's own secrets plot to put him at odds with reality, leaving Sam to wonder if his brother is finally losing his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	True North

The air tasted of blood. Sam had told him it was because of the rust in the remaining structures of the collapsed buildings, but Dean knew better.

It was them. It was their blood.

Dean wiped the sweat off his face one more time. The drops he’d missed stung when they hit his eyes, blurring his vision until he could see nothing but shapes and blobs of light.

They had the advantage over him; he had to get out, get away from them, from Sam.

Dean forced himself to get moving. His feet stumbled on the trash covered ground, walking like a sailor who spent too much time on the high seas and had forgotten how to walk the land.

There was something –someone- following him, bit no matter how hard Dean looked, he couldn’t see a thing. He knew they were there, waiting to catch him alone, waiting to catch him with his guard down. It was just a matter of time.

Dean pulled out the EMF reader. He needed a few more minutes to work undisturbed. It wasn’t ghosts, deep inside he had always known that, but demons... demons registered in the reader as loud and clear as any other Casper-freak.

Silent.

Not even a flicker of light.

Dean banged it against the crumbling wall, watching plaster turn into dust and float away. And still the EMF display remained unlit.

It was broken. The water... it had to be water in the circuits. Electrical things behaved weirdly when they got wet. Everyone knew that.

But it had worked with the ghosts, just hours before... days, perhaps. Why not with demons?

It wasn’t doing what it was supposed to do. It was supposed to work. Why was the EMF reader acting crazy?

_You’re acting crazy._

Dean could almost see them. He could feel them, brushing against him and burning him with their evil touch. He couldn’t let them distract him. He had to finish this.

_What are you doing there, Dean? Drawing circles on the ground? Is that what you do now for kicks? You an artist, Dean? Alastair thought you were an artist. Only then, you'd used a knife, your canvas was flesh and the thrill was hearing those souls scream for mercy where none was to be had._

They called to him when Sam wasn’t around. Invisible demons, whispering things in his ears, things that no one was suppose to know.

_You smiled when you pulled that prick’s guts out_ , one said.

_You tasted that bitch’s liver and loved it_ , another hissed.

“No...” Dean answered through gritted teeth. His head ached abysmally and he grabbed at his skull, pressing into his temple trying to ease the pain. His fingers, covered in white chalk, left pale imprints on his skin.

_You were Alastair’s favorite pet_ , a new voice growled, its breath sending a frisson of bone-chilling air down Dean’s spine. _He doted on you with bloody gifts_ .

God, they wouldn’t shut up. They never shut up.

_Golden boy._

“No.” 

_But it is true_ . 

“No!” Dean shouted into the room. Dean had never asked to be special, didn’t want to be special. He hated it still.  “Stop!” he shouted. “I didn’t want-- I tried to... just...”

Dean’s back connected with a tree--when had he walked outside? Had he finished? --and his legs gave out. Hands still clutching his head, his legs folded and he slide to the floor until his ass connected with the cold dirt. The voices only got louder and he covered his ears. They accused and shouted even as he drew his knees into his chest, desperate to block them out.

Sleep. God, he was so tired. Dean needed sleep, but he couldn’t. Not until he found them and made them shut up.

-SAM-

Dean died on Sam’s birthday. It took the young Winchester a whole week to realize that fact. Of course, rare had been the occasions he had been sober enough to realize anything at all during those days, but still... the irony of the fact should have caught his attention sooner.

Dean drew his last breath on the same day Sam had taken his first, twenty-four years apart. It seemed appropriate, in some twisted and scorning way.

Sam buried his brother two days after the Hell-hounds had ripped Dean to shreds in front of his eyes. For a whole day after it had happened, he couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Sam had no recollection of what had happened after Lilith had smoked out of Ruby’s former body until he found himself in the passenger seat of Bobby’s pick-up, heading down a dark road in the middle of nowhere.

His first thought had been panic, not knowing where Dean’s body was, unaware of what had become of it.

Empty vessel though it was, it was important to Sam to keep it safe. While Dean’s soul suffered unfathomable horrors in Hell, the only thing Sam could do was keep his body safe.

Dean would need it when he returned.

Bobby’s suggestion of burning Dean’s body had not been welcomed. And that was putting it mildly. Sam was pretty sure he’d knocked a tooth out of the older man’s mouth with the punch he’d thrown before he left to bury Dean in secret.

Bobby would eventually forgive him.

The task of finding a place to bury Dean had fallen to Sam alone. That part, despite the amounts of alcohol that had followed, Sam remembered all too well.

Covered in blood, body stiff from rigor, Dean's clothes barely hung from his already rotting flesh. It was something that wouldn’t have bothered Dean; after all, he had been covered in blood all of his life.

The blood of those they could not save.

The blood of the things they killed.

The blood of his mother.

The blood of his father.

Sam’s blood.

His own.

It wouldn’t have bothered Dean, but it bothered Sam to see his brother soiled in such a way.

With the same care a mother would pick her newborn child to give him his first bath, Sam had carried Dean’s body to a nearby river.

The water was flowing rapidly, fed by the last rains of winter, still too cold to be called pleasant and attract swimmers.

The dead, however, do not complain.

He had tried to gently remove Dean’s shirts and jeans, but fabric fell apart as soon as Sam tried to maneuver them. It was as if, absent of life, what Dean had been and used while alive, was disintegrating and turning to ashes already.

The water was too fast and too cold, but Sam had barely taken notice of that. His only concern was to wash away the blood from Dean’s skin and not lose his grip on his brother. His hands were numb, matching his heart.

Clean water washed away the gore, but the ugly truth underneath it was almost enough to undo Sam’s resolve.

The piece of meat he was holding in his hands was not his brother.

It bore deep gashes that gave way to the ghastly view of hidden bones; flesh and muscle fell apart between his fingers like soggy matter, refusing to hold together.

An old shed, abandoned in the middle of the woods, donated part of its cracked planks to build a coffin to hold what was left of Dean.

It was a glorified box, barely big enough to hold a grown man, and yet... death had shrunken Dean into less than he had been. The space occupied by his soul was gone, Sam realized.

Dean was smaller without it.

The ground was soft, dirt loosened by the recent rain. Digging Dean’s grave took far less time than Sam had imagined. 

Rain started failing again as Sam had struggled to cover it. He felt like apologizing for every shovel of dirt that landed on top of that coffin. 

_I’m sorry Dean. I’m so sorry._

A shallow grave, made for a quick exit. A spit-glued coffin for a temporary death. Fresh clothes for those who will live again.

Jesus had returned from the dead in three days, as the Christian lore goes. Sam had sworn to his brother, as he covered his coffin in wet dirt, that he would be faster than God Himself.

A week after, he realized that he was a failure.

-MARTIN-

The country was on the verge of being split apart. An unstoppable conflict, rising like a tidal wave that promised to set brother against brother, family against family.  

If Lincoln’s rhetoric about setting slaves free and treating them like regular folks continued, there would be blood shed. American blood. A war like none this country had experienced before; not against the British or the French, but American against American.

Martin Bowe, however, couldn’t care less.

Irish by birth, he'd immigrated to North America as a young boy and once his feet had touched dry land, surviving in the streets of New York had led to a life of violence and bloodshed. It was a way of life that had lead him to grow strong, ruthless. It had taught him the value of family, how to take what he wanted and mercilessly kill those who'd dared harm them or stand in his way. It had been a good life and he'd intended for it to go on for much longer.

Until some stool pigeon had ratted him and his brothers out to the police.

The judge, in his _ever loving_ mercy, had declined to have them hung. Instead, he'd given them over to the state hospital's latest study in human behavior, for the, as he put it, 'betterment of society in ridding our growing nation of refuse like yourselves’... or some other dog’s crap like that. 

Mercy, as it were, had always been a foreign word for the Bowe family. Martin had never dreamt that it actually meant Hell. Because that's where they'd ended up.

It was snowing the day he watched the bodies of his brothers Jack and Jim being eaten by the earth only a few months after they'd arrived. The priests back home had been wrong; Hell, as it turned out, was actually a place on Earth.

Procedural complications, the doctor in charge had spat at him, but only after Martin had shouted himself hoarse demanding answers from the man.

He’d heard his brothers’ screams.

He was familiar with the so-called _procedures_ .

It was raining on that day, icy water that slipped inside his blue cotton pajamas and chilled him to the bone. They’d come for Will this time, the youngest of his three brothers.

Will had been handy with a knife, Martin recalled with affection. The things he'd done to people with that blade were worthy of a master. Like that old Italian guy his mother had been so fond of... Michelangelo.

They hadn’t even allowed Martin to look at his brother one last time. Didn’t want him to see the mess that was left after what they’d done, all in the name of the thing they called science, all of it done in secret, behind those closed doors.

There were no coffins. Not for the prisoners who had been ‘volunteered’ by the government to the betterment of medical science. No, they'd forfeited even that right when the judge had struck his gavel. 

Martin looked at the empty space beside the three fresh graves. He would be joining his brothers soon, he knew that for sure. Already he felt his insides battling each other, fever slowly gaining ground. He was too weak and unhinged to plan for his revenge.

Not in this life, at least.

-MICHAEL-

“Let us remember Karen Hobbs not as she is presented here today, but as the shining light of hope and joy that she was in life. We are gathered here to commend her body to the ground, her soul to Our—”

Michael filtered out the rest of the pastor’ speech, barely controlling the angry snort that wanted to escape his tightly pressed lips. His hands were balled into fists so stiff that he no longer could feel his fingers.

They were commending nothing to the ground. The whole funeral was a farce, a show. Something tangible in which people could pour out their grief.

It was all bullshit because the coffin was empty, just like the coffins of Amelia, Blake, Gretchen, Kyle and Andrew had been empty. His closest friends, their empty coffins taken home by their parents, to be laid to rest in their family plots.

Six empty coffins, six parodies. 

Official line was that they had drowned in the river, the waters treacherous and stormy this time of the year. That they had never made it to the island or back to the city, their bodies carried by the strong undertow of Hell’s gate, out to sea, gone forever...

Michael knew better however. He had shown Karen’s text message to the cops, the one she had sent when they’d arrived at the island, saying that there was something spooky going on.

They hadn’t believed him. There were no bodies, no proof of foul play. Except for the feeling in the pit of Michael’s stomach. It had been years since he’d felt it, that sense that something more was going on.

Denial, the rest of their friends had called it.

Survivor's guilt.

He was supposed to have gone with them. He should’ve been there with them. But he’d come down with a nasty case of the flu, of all things. 

It had all been a joke, easy money. A way for them to pay the rest of their University tuition. Something that Michael had welcomed as much as the rest of his, now dead, friends. And he had escaped not because he was smarter or because he knew best, but because he had been sick.

He felt sick now. Impotent.

Something on that damn island had killed his friends. And no one would believe him when he had told his story.

Michael felt like Cassandra, doomed to know the truth and have no one believe him.

Rain started to fall as the first handful of dirt hit Karen’s coffin. It sounded like everyone was throwing mud at her, at who she had been.

Karen’s goal, her sole reason for going to med school in the first place had been to find the cure for immunodeficiency related diseases. And she was... she had been bright and committed enough to eventually do it.

Now, she was fish food, if he was to believe the police. One more, soon to be forgotten, casualty of the East River.

Michael couldn’t allow that to happen.

_“Dean…” Alastair gazed down at him, eyes devoid of any color, mouth drawn up in a sneer. “Answer me,” he demanded in a purr-like growl. There’s a sharp blade in his raised hand, prepared to slice again, light catching on the metal as he twirls it._

_A clock ticks, self importantly reminding those around that time hasn’t stopped._

_The sound echoing in Dean’s head. Throbbing. Pounding in his skull…_

_“Hey…” Alastair’s voice sounds more concerned this time. His face blurs and frays around the edges. “You with me?”_

_The light starts to shimmer, Alastair is grabbing his shoulder. “Dean!” Sam’s voice shouts. But the face is still Alastair’s and the knife is still there, and the chainsaws start buzzing._

“Hey!”

Dean jolted, eyes open wide. “Wha..?” his voice faltered. Heart hammering in his chest, muscles locked, too terrified to move; he slammed his eyes closed, then open, desperate to get his bearings. Things start to find focus...

Motel room.

“Dean?”

Sam's voice.

Dean turned his head. Sam's face. 

“You with me?”

Dean sighed in relief, heart still racing. Sam. That was Sam’s voice. Not Alastair's, or any of the other hundreds of tormented souls and demons he’d met in Hell. More focused now, he could see; that was Sam and he was sitting on the edge of the bed. Brow scrunched in concern. 

Gaudy, threadbare curtains and sheets, cheap pressboard tables, outdated colors all filled in the gaps... yeah, another crap-assed motel. And Sam.

“Hey...” Sam tried, voice cautious and soft. In one hand was a towel, wadded neatly and in the other, a water bottle. “You all right?” he asked, eyes pinched in concern with just a hint of that ever-present annoyance.

“I uh…” Dean coughed, cleared his throat and worked to get into a sitting position, one that felt less vulnerable, less weak. “Guess I dozed off.” Closing his eyes, he rubbed at the bridge of his nose, pinching it between thumb and forefinger. The effect was more physiologic than physic, because it changed nothing.

“Yeah,” Sam sighed tiredly. “Understatement of the century. At least it was something resembling sleep…” he murmured.

Purposefully ignoring that last comment, Dean’s fingers inched up, attempting to soothe the ache that was now the equivalent of a million trolls compressed inside his skull and all of them pissed as shit. His stomach picked that moment to twist and roll in response.

“Don’t tou—” Sam warned but a little too late as Dean hissed and pulled his fingers back. “… touch that,” he finished.

“The hell…” Dean murmured. Employing a lighter touch, his fingers ghosted lightly over the torn flesh at his temple, noting the familiar butterfly tape adhesive and the taught pull of flesh over the good sized goose-egg. “Son of a bitch,” he growled and closed his eyes at the constant hammering in his head. And here he was, hoping for it to be just a hangover.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed. The bed shifted a couple of times then something cold brushed Dean’s forearm. “Here.” 

Dean opened his eyes; Sam held a wadded towel in his hand and urged him silently to take it. The stuffing, he figured, was surely ice. “Thanks.” Despite his best efforts, once the cold cloth touched goose-egg, the sensitive flesh throbbed harder and he winced in response. “Jesus...”

“You do know,” Sam began, his voice taking on _that_ tone, “it’s generally a bad idea to hit on some large biker dude’s chick, right?”

God, Dean really didn't want to do this right now. “You don't say,” he responded casually.

“Especially, when he’s there with four of his equally beefy biker friends,” Sam continued, a little angrier this time, “and not one of them is less than six feet of muscle and spoiling for a fight.”

Dean rolled his eyes gently because even that hurt, and glared at Sam. “I wasn’t hitting on her, I was…” He thought a moment, lowering the ice pack. “I was just being friendly.”

“Well,” Sam chuckled, “her boyfriend didn’t seem to think so and given how drunk you were…”

“Jesus, what'd he hit me with?” Dean murmured and pulled the cloth away from his head. 

“No-no,” Sam quickly placed a hand under Dean's and guided it back to press the ice pack once more against the knot. “Keep that on there. Get the swelling down.” Having gotten another look at the cut, he winced.  “Yeah, maybe I should’ve stitched that.”

“No,” Dean sighed tiredly and pulled the towel back just enough to glance at the surface before showing it to Sam. “See. No bleeding. Butterfly’s enough, the rest is just a headache.” 

“Hang on,” Sam said as he twisted and picked up a bottle of pills from the night stand. He shook out two painkillers and pressed them into Dean’s free hand. “We could stay an extra day,” he said watching as Dean popped the pills in his mouth, noting how he was careful not to move too much.

“Because of a headache?” Dean asked before washing the meds down with half the contents of the water bottle. “Screw that, I’m fine,” he insisted. The shrill guitar riff of his ring-tone blared suddenly and he winced. “Dammit.” 

“Yeah, right,” Sam quipped quietly, the word dripping with sarcasm. “You’re just fine.”

Too focused on ending the noise, Dean ignored Sam’s retort and continued patting his pockets. The damn thing managed to ring once more when Dean fished it from his pocket and flipped it open with a glance to the number. No one he knew.

“What?” he shouted and immediately regretted it. A new wave of pain rippled through his skull and he pressed his forehead into the ice but the damage was done. 

_“Um…”_ a hesitant voice stammered a moment. _“I-is this… I’m looking for um, Dean Winchester.”_

“Well, you got ’im,” Dean confirmed and tossed Sam a puzzled look. “Who’s this?”

_“You probably don’t remember me, but I… my name is Michael. You helped me and my family four years back. Saved my brother’s life. A lot of other kids too.”_

Dean's brow furrowed. “Michael…” he repeated the caller’s name, testing the sound of it, hoping it would spark a memory but it didn’t. “Sorry, I don’t—”

_“My little brother’s name is Asher. Mom ran a motel in Fitchburg, Wisconsin where there was this thing killing kids. Making them real sick. You called it a Shtriga… ring any bells yet?”_

“Wait,” Dean said quietly. All motels started looking the same after a while. That one, however... 

_“Need a room.” Dean said. He spared the kid behind the counter little more than a quick glance as he rifled through the cards in his wallet._

_“King or two queens?” he asked, staring at Dean with this know-it-all smirk._

_“Two queens,” Dean said and slapped the credit card on the counter. He watched curiously as the boy tilted to one side to gaze past him; Dean did a half-turn to follow the boy’s gaze; Sam stood outside, leaning casually against the Impala_

_“Yeah, I bet.” The kid smirked._

_Dean whipped his head around and stared at the kid. “What did you say?” he asked, daring the kid to back his play with something more than innuendo._

_“Nice car,” he responded with an innocent smile._

“Fitchburg. The Sht—,” Dean murmured. He snapped his fingers; it all came to him. “ _That_ Michael? That little smart mouthed Michael at the motel?”

Michael chuckled. _“Guilty.”_

“Wow,” Dean ran a hand through his hair as he listened in disbelief. “Man, um… well,” he stood and tossed the ice pack on the bed, felt Sam’s questioning gaze burning into him, “much as I’d like to believe you’re just calling to thank us, four years and probably a dozen burner phones later, I gotta believe there’s another reason for this call. For which, by the way, you’re going to have to explain to me how you got my cell number and all…”

_“Yeah, well. You’re right about the call being something else entirely.”_ Michael hesitated a second. _“You know, after you guys left, I sorta kept up with you.”_

“Really?” Dean said pulling a beer from the mini-fridge. “How so?” he moved back over to the table. What he really wanted to ask was why but he was afraid he wouldn’t like the answer.

_“It’s not too hard if you’re pretty good at computers. The trail of false ID’s and credit cards helped, and like I said, a little computer know-how.”_

“Well, color me glad you’re not a Fed.” Dean froze, ass in mid-descent over the chair at the little motel table. Sam glared thunderously at him. Dean could only shrug helplessly back at his brother while mentally scampering to figure how old Michael would be now and what the FBI’s policy on recruiting children was. “You’re not a Fed, right?”

Michael chuckled mirthlessly. _“No, not a Fed. Look, I called because, well, I kinda need your help. Again.”_

Dean breathed a quiet sigh of relief and dropped into the chair. “Not another Shtriga, is it?” he asked even though he was fairly certain that was impossible. Still, the impossible was precisely their line of work so he grabbed their dad’s journal and Sam flipped open his computer.

_“No, not that. I honestly don't know what it is, but people don't just disappear! The cops, they won't listen and—”_ Dean heard him sigh. _“Listen, is it possible we do this in person? It’s a long story.”_

“Okay,” Dean nodded. “You still in Fitchburg? Your mom still hot -er- living there too?” Sam kicked Dean under the table. “Ouch.” Dean whispered angrily and glared at his brother. 

_“No, I live in up-state New York. I’m in college.”_

“Oh,” Dean nodded. “That’s good. Good for you.” He pulled the cheap motel pad out from under the journal and with one hand, popped the cap off the pen. “Where at?”

~o~

Sam shoved his way angrily out of the car. “I can’t believe you said that to me!” he practically shouted and slammed the passenger. The car rocked with the impact.

As much as the rough treatment of his baby grated on Dean’s nerves, he knew better. Breathing deeply to keep a tight rein on his temper, he gripped the steering wheel. He knew better because Sam was well and truly pissed. Moreover, he knew better because he knew Sam had every right to be. 

What he’d said, though he’d never intended it to be, had been insensitive considering the events of the last few months. But Sam had been harassing him over his lack of sleep, his lack of sharing over his time below and dammit, he’d had to say something! Dean just hadn’t meant to say... that.

Still, Dean cursed himself internally, remained seated and wished like hell he could take those words back. But he couldn’t and neither could he avoid a conversation he really didn’t want to have so he opted for a slow exit instead; he needed every second he could get partly to tamp down his own feelings of guilt, and partly to give Sam some time to cool down.

After a sidelong glance at his brother, however, any chance of that happening disappeared completely. His back to Dean, Sam’s hands balled up into fists on his hips, his head tipped back slightly, giving slight shakes, no doubt of his disbelief. 

Yup, cooling off looked more like loading up for another round.

Accepting his fate, Dean planted both feet on the concrete parking lot, rose to full height and took a deep breath before beginning. “Yeah…” he mumbled as he leaned against the car and looked around them, wishing desperately for a drink to get through this. “Yeah, I um…” he glanced toward Sam. “Look, that was…it was a terrible thing to say—” Sam’s huff at the understatement had Dean’s dander up again. “Hey man, if you hadn’t—”

The sentence died when Sam spun at the challenge in Dean’s tone, pinning him with that hurt angry look he was so frigging good at. _Super_ . Dean deflated. This was backfiring spectacularly.

Dammit, this wasn’t all Dean’s fault. Sam had been pushing him. Again. Needling him on the subject of his sleeping habits, or lack thereof and his unwillingness to talk about Hell and Dean had reacted as he always had; with tersely disguised humor. Something Dean had always done before… before Sam had watched him actually die, unable to do anything as he was ripped to shreds by a hell-hound. Then, as he’d spent hours burying his torn and shredded body.

“Sam, c’mon man, I’m— I’m sorry,” Dean tried again. “I know I—”

“Sorry?” Sam choked out and turned to face his brother head-on. The look of disbelief and hurt screamed back at Dean and Dean flinched and looked away.

“Look,” Dean said tried again, “I was just trying to say that sleep is—”

“Don’t.” Sam barked threateningly. “Don’t you dare give me some shit like ‘sleep is highly overrated because…” he couldn’t finish. Sam shook his head and stalked several paces away from the car, shoulders still tense and back straight before he stopped and just stood there.

And Dean shrunk into himself, replaying in his mind their conversation. When Sam, sore and stiff from their marathon drive to reach New York had woken to catch Dean in the middle of a jaw cracking yawn, had groused that for someone who claimed he wasn’t tired, he looked like warmed up crap.

And Dean just couldn’t help himself. In his usual attempt to diffuse and divert the attention away from himself, he’d smirked and said, “ _I’ll sleep when I’m dead, Sammy_ .”

God. The choked, whimper Sam had made. Unable to meet his brother’s eyes, Dean had to look away. He’d regretted those words the moment they’d left his lips but… dammit, Sam just wouldn’t stop pushing. And Dean had pushed back on reflex and... well, Dean would just have to wait out Sam’s tirade and apologize again, he owed him that much. Dean’s death had been really hard on his brother and regardless of what Dean had gone through, he needed to remember that.

“I said I was sorry… what more do you want? A pint of my—” Dean bit his lip and Sam spun and glared at him. “Man, would you quit making me do this! I suck at apologies. Can we just go find Michael's’ apartment?”

Sam sighed and walked back toward the car and stood there. “You didn’t even sleep the whole trip, Dean.”

Oh god. Back to that argument again. “I slept.”

“An hour, maybe two in forty-eight hours? Dean, that’s not sleep, that's insanity waiting to happen.” Sam’s voice was level and even and Dean hated it more than the argumentative bitchy whine because that was something he could derail and push on, not this. This rational calm voice.

“Told you, I just wasn’t tired.”

Sam nodded. “Right, that’s why the dark circles under your eyes have bags and the bags have their own set of dark circles.”

Dean shrugged. “Well sure I’m tired _now_ .” Sam huffed and looked away. Dean continued, “Look, I promise I’ll sleep after we’ve talked to Michael but he’s expecting us and I promised him we’d get here by morning,” he looked up at the rapidly brightening sky, “and there’s not much of that left.”

Sam was quiet a moment longer. “You either don’t get it or you’re hoping I don’t.”

Dean felt utterly perplexed and a little more than irritated. “Then enlighten me, Sam,” he said as he threw out his arms. “Because I’m real tired of guessing your cryptic moods here.”

“It’s not about you not sleeping Dean. It’s the _why_ you’re not sleeping that worries me. And why you’re drinking steadily and on the odd occasion that you do sleep, you wake bathed in sweat with the last gasp of a scream on your lips.”

It was Dean’s turn to shudder. He offered a huff and look away; he didn’t want to see the truth of Sam’s observations, and what’s more, he didn’t want to hear it. “I’m done here,” he growled and turned to walk away.

“You know Dean,” Sam’s voice notched higher, wanting to be sure Dean heard him. “It’s hard enough to help you when you’re walking around in a sleep-deprived daze and harder still to do this job when I’m no longer sure of your ability to react to save your own life, let alone mine.”

Dean stumbled to a halt, his blood freezing in his veins. He spun and pinned Sam with a thunderous stare. “You saying I don’t have your back?”

“No, I’m saying it’s real hard to be sure you’re on your game when you’re walking around in a fog. I’m saying I saw you from the gas-station window when you jerked awake in the car after your little two hour cat-nap with a look of sheer terror in your eyes. I’m saying you’re drinking all the time and… I’m worried about you.”

Dean felt the air go out of his lungs and he looked down at the paper in his hands, the one with Michael’s address scrawled across it. This had gotten uncomfortable and it was time to divert and move on.

“Yeah, well. I appreciate your concern but I’m fine—”

“Right, people who come back from Hell are always fine.”

Dean spread his arms in utter confusion. “What do you want me to say Sam? Maybe I’m not 100% fine but I’ll get there. And regardless, we have this job to do and this guy that we owe a lot to for helping us kill that Shtriga.” He waved the apartment address at Sam and turned from the car. “Now, if you wanna continue this discussion, you’ll have to do it without me, because I for one am not going to let him down. Are you?”

Dean started up the stairs and after a heartbeat, he heard his little brother following, long strides catching up with him easily as they took the stairs in unison, stopping when they reached the stoop to the door. A panel with buttons and coinciding apartment numbers listed one apartment number next to each button.

Dean found and pressed the key next to apartment 30 and together they waited. The tension of their conversation still hung heavily in the air but mostly, Dean’s mind was already at work furiously trying to figure out a way of getting out of his promise to get some sleep after their interview with Michael.

_“Yeah?”_ A voice cut from the little speaker beneath the button panel.

“Michael? It’s Dean and Sam Winchester.” The sound of the door unlocking hit before Michael answered.

_“C’mon up.”_

~o~

In Michael’s cramped apartment, Dean and Sam sat on an old, seen-better-days sofa, each clutching a piping hot mug of coffee. While Michael finished making his own drink, they gazed around the room.

Nearly every empty floor space had stacks of books. There were more books, in fact, than furniture. There were several stacks lining one wall, and in each corner opposite the sofa and one even had a lamp perched on top. On a crate in front of them were still more books, several spiral notebooks and a laptop, and where there weren’t books, there were dirty dishes, clothes and a blanket that covered the sofa; beneath it? Who knew? Certainly neither of the Winchesters cared to speculate.

It was a typical, too poor, too busy and too focused on school to care, college-kid apartment.

Dean watched Michael carefully. He looked drawn and gray, like he hadn’t slept enough in weeks and missed too many meals and… sad. The sentiment was like a shawl covering all that the kid should be.

“So, you called,” he started before Michael could take his seat; he could feel Sam’s curious eyes on him. “How can we help?”

Dean didn’t think it possible for the kid to become paler, but just that one question had completely leached out what little color he’d had left. Clearly, whatever had happened, it had affected this young man adversely and he looked ready to topple. Dean shifted to the edge of his seat, ready to make a grab for him, feeling Sam do the same, as he’d obviously seen it too.

Michael must have seen their reactions because he raised a staying hand. “It’s alright, I’m alright,” he said as he lowered himself to the chair across from them. After setting his own steaming mug on the makeshift table he picked up a book from the table, tugged a piece of paper out and stared at it; he seemed to study it, his face taking on a range of emotion, none of them good. “Ever heard of North Brother Island?” he said but never took his eyes off what Dean could now tell was a picture.

Dean started to shake his head but before he could he felt Sam shift next to him and looked at his brother. “I haven’t but,” Dean paused for effect, and Sam didn’t disappoint; he knew that look. “But my trusty Encyclopedia of all things Weird might have.” 

Sam leveled a ‘ _screw you’_ face at him and cleared his throat.

“If I remember right, there was a hospital there, built in the late 1800’s, I think. It was used as a quarantine facility for contagions ranging from smallpox to typhoid, and even leprosy.”

Michael nodded, his eyes still locked on the image in the photo. “Right, but there’s a different part of the history, one rarely mentioned. And I let them go there, to that place, even though I knew better.”

“Who, Michael?” Dean asked.

Michael’s hand was trembling now but he slowly extended the photo toward Dean. “My friends and—and Karen.” His eyes met Dean’s. “I was going to marry her after school, but now…”

Dean looked at the photo, tilting it so Sam could see. “Them,” he said as he looked at the faces of the group of young people in the photo, one of them Michael’s. “You mean all of these people...?”

“Gone. My best friends. We were all in the same year here at Cornell. All of us ready to change the world with our dreams and illusions like what we did mattered but—

“What’s this got to do with North Brother Island?” Sam asked and Dean was grateful. It was best to stick with the facts, keep Michael on track and off the emotional side of his loss, the side that was ripping him apart from the inside. “How did you and your friends end up there?”

Michael stared at Sam a moment. “When we weren’t studying our asses off, we volunteered our time at a low income clinic not far from the island; practical experience in real-life settings looks good on a resume, you know? There was this guy that was always there, he wore these expensive suits, introduced himself as a benefactor of the foundation that covered the clinic’s expenses. He seemed nice enough, took an interest in us and was always there when we were there. At the time, I didn’t think anything of it…”

When it seemed Michael wasn’t going to continue, Dean prodded. “And now?”

“Now, I think he was baiting us.” Michael looked at Dean, his eyes rolling in guilt. “I wasn’t there when he made the offer. I should have been there. I would have stopped them.”

“What offer, Michael?” Sam tried this time. “Did he want them to go to the island?”

Michael nodded. “I came down with the flu two days before,” he continued, voice hallow and self-deprecating, “and ended up not going to the clinic that day. He made them an offer, told them that if they could stay the night on the island, he’d pay off all our school loans.”

“And they believed him?” Dean said incredulously. “Just like that, they went? Not a one of them thought it too good to be true?”

“They weren’t idiots!” Michael snapped angrily.

Sam reached out a staying hand. “I'm sure that's not what Dean meant,” he said attempting to calm him. “We're just trying to understand, okay?”

Michael deflated quickly and sat back in his chair, eyeing his untouched drink. “Karen called me on their way to the docks,” he continued. “She told me what he’d offered and I tried talking her out of going. I did. I knew it didn’t sound right. But they were… they were strange... It almost seemed like they were off somehow, drunk-like.” He shook his head. “It was weird. Karen was never the type to go off on adventures like that.” 

Dean and Sam shared a look. “What’s the other thing about the island, that thing you mentioned before?” Dean asked.

Michael nodded. “There were rumors. Of the hospital being in function long before its opening day, of weird deaths amongst the patients, unnamed personnel sent there as a part of some government program, never to be seen again...  the usual sort of conspiracy theory type thing.” 

The room was quiet a moment and Dean asked quietly, “What happened to your friends, Michael?”

Michael swallowed audibly. “I made Karen promise to text me every hour to check in and she did that. And with each text message she was progressively more scared. Then in the last one...” Michael closed his eyes, the memory clearly too painful to bear. “She was sure there was something other than the six of them on that island. Something evil.”

“You told all this to the cops?” Sam asked quietly and Michael nodded, a tear escaping his closed lids, tracking slowly down his cheeks as another followed. “What did they say?”

“Police searched the island but found no trace of them. They searched for weeks!” He sniffed and wiped at the tears with the back of his wrist. Eyes still shining he met the brothers’ gazes, determined. “The skiff they took out, that’s the only thing they found. It was in a twisted, mangled wreck up river, on the shore. The cops figure they were on their way back when their boat capsized in the choppy waters near Hell Gate and given the currents, their bodies were dragged out to sea.”

The room was quiet for nearly a full minute, the Winchesters sitting quietly before Dean shifted. “Um,” he began hesitantly, “so what’s this Hell Gate you mentioned?

“Oh, it's a real narrow point of the East River, a tidal strait. And that means treacherous water flow, undertows, scary to navigate if the weather gets bad.”

Dean and Sam shared a look. “And it's the only way to the island?” 

Michael scratched the back of his neck. “Yeah, I'm afraid so. But it's doable, just you know, don't go when the weather's bad. No matter how good you are at operating a skiff.”

INTERLUDE I

  


“We can’t take the bridge, Dean,” Sam pointed out patiently, mainly because he was only half listening to his brother’s complaints. 

“Why the hell not? New York _only_ has a bazillion of them!”

Sam stopped in front of a small, green boat. The paint was peeling and the deck was covered in bird droppings, but the price tag on the rental was very enticing and he was pretty sure the guy renting it was too scared of him to have been lying when he said the thing would run. “None of them connect to this particular island.”

Dean paused, wrinkling his nose at the smell of boat diesel and seaweed from the still waters of the docks. “What about a tunnel? A subway tunnel?” he asked half-heartedness. “There has to be one that goes there, right?”

Few things made Dean despair so openly as the inability to drive his car to a particular destination, Sam was aware of that. The fact that the only way to get to the North Brother Island was by boat, was not sitting well with his brother’s view of the world.

“We’re taking this one,” Sam gave voice to his decision, more to put an end to Dean’s wild alternatives than to ask for his input in the type of boat they were taking.

Dean tried to hide his sulking, but the crossed arms and sour face were doing a poor job of it. “Do you even have any idea how to work this ugly assed thing?”

~o~

As it turned out, driving an outboard motor boat was pretty much the same as driving a car. Except for the fact that it had no breaks. And there was no road.

It had taken Sam a couple of tries to get the engine running and, after that, to find his way into how much throttle to give without slowing the boat’s speed, or choking it to a complete stop.

Dean, on the other hand, seemed to have discovered a new mode of transportation that he hated more than airplanes. Flimsy, stinky, outboard boats as he called it.

Each time the front of the boat surged up, whether because Sam had pushed the throttle faster or because the boat was riding up a wave, Dean turned a new shade of green that almost matched the boat’s coat of paint. His hands, gripping tightly to the edge of his seat, were cramping into claws.

Sam was pretty sure there would be nail marks on those wooden boards when they finally arrived at their destination.

According to the map, North Brother Island was only a short distance away from Shore Haven Harbor but the tiny piece of land, sitting in the middle of the East River, seemed to drift away from them with each mile they boated closer.

Dean was humming, probably focusing on not losing his dinner over the edge of the boat, when Sam felt the first drop of rain fell on the back of his neck. “Looks like the weather’s turning,” he shouted over the noise of the motor. Almost as if the clouds had been waiting for his permission to open up the floodgates, the wind began to blow stronger and heavy drops of rain started to fall.

Dean gripped the bench seat tighter. “Can’t this thing go any faster?” he urged. His eyes kept darting from New York City’s lights, slowly shrinking behind Sam and the large dark shape ahead of them, the North Brother Island.

He seemed to be trying to guess which place was closer. But Sam was not letting some wind and crispy water make him turn tail and go back. Dean wouldn’t have either, a couple of months before. Now... Sam had his doubts. “We’re nearly there.”

The city provided all the light they needed to see which direction to go, but the rain was making it harder and harder to keep their gazes steady. The wind, stronger now, kept pushing the boat off-course, making Sam sweat under the downpour to correct their bearing.

In between the cold rain and the river water, that seemed fixed to join them inside the boat, Sam and Dean were thoroughly soaked in less than a minute, even if they were both too busy to notice it.

While Sam did his best to get them to the island as fast as the old boat could, Dean kept busy trying to bail some of the water out.

From where Sam was sitting, Dean was Sisyphus, rolling his stone up a hill, only to see it roll back as soon as the top was in sight. Pointless.

“We’re nearly there,” Sam kept whispering to himself, like a mantra, a prayer, too soft for Dean to hear. “Nearly there.”

The ominous, grinding sound of wood scraping over rock was louder than the storm itself, strong enough that the Winchesters felt it in their bones.

They could both guess what was going to happen next. It was clear in the panicked look that Sam threw his brother’s way.

“SAM!”

The boat broke cleanly in half. Sam’s side, weighted by the engine, started sinking backwards as waves hit them from all sides.

Sam watched his brother trying to reach for him, but everything was happening too fast. He felt the water closing in over his head and thought bitterly that he should’ve taken a deep breath. It was too late for that now.

Dean’s arms flailed, pushed around the half boat by the angry waters. His fingers brushed against the familiar fabric of their duffel bag, the one where they’d stuffed whatever gear they’d managed to fit.

His fingers closed around the handle of the bag just before he was thrown in the water too.

Both Winchesters were good swimmers. It was one of the few things Sam had enjoyed about their training, one he had always been more than willing to practice until perfection. Dean had always been more than happy to join him in his quest for ‘perfection’, since most of time it amounted to nothing more than two siblings goofing around in the water.

This, however, had little to do with swimming. The liquid they found themselves in tasted like water, felt like water, but it moved like a living thing.

Icy fingers made of water grabbed and pulled at Sam and Dean, holding onto their clothes, trying to drag them further and further below.

Sam emerged for a few seconds; mouth opened in a desperate breath, trying to fill his lungs with air and cough out the water that was already there, all in the same motion.

The result was less than graceful.

He couldn’t see Dean anywhere. Even the bright city lights seemed to have disappeared in favor of the black water.

Trying to fight the water and swim his way to the island on the surface of the angry lake was madness. Sam tried to venture his best guess at where the island was, took one more shaky breath and dove under the surface.

A few feet below, the current was still pretty strong but manageable, with inner streams that seemed to pull in every direction. Sam pushed  and pressed against the current.

Even though it felt like he was standing still, Sam knew he had made some progress when his knees hit sand. He dragged himself to the shore, exhausted.

Catching his breath, Sam rolled over, coughing out what felt like a stomach full of river water. The sand around him was slowly filling with the debris of their boat. “Dean?”

The way the currents were pulling, there was no telling where his brother might’ve ended up. The possibility of Dean having drowned was one that Sam refused to consider.

Dean was part fish, their father used to say. Fish don’t drown. “DEAN?”

Pushing himself to his feet, Sam looked around. His legs were shaking, muscles tired like he’d just run the marathon and his breathing still sounded wet.

There was a dark shape a few feet ahead, long and slim against the sand, motionless. Sam blinked against the wiping winds and falling rain. Walking toward it at first, his heart jumped to his throat and he began racing towards it. He stopped short as he was close enough to see what it was.

A log.

A rotting, broken and peeling piece of dead wood. Sam made a feeble attempt to kick at it in frustration but exhausted legs wouldn’t cooperate and his foot missed its mark. “Dammit,” he hissed and bent at the waist, catching his breath for what felt like the millionth time since exiting the water. A second later, he founds himself smiling.

Dead wood was a lot better than dead Dean.

Sam unfolded, pulling his wet hair back as he did. His fingers came back holding a piece of seaweed and he threw it away in disgust. How the hell was he going to find Dean in that darkness?

Something moved on the log, catching Sam’s eyes. It was probably just a crab or some other shore animal. Still, he moved nearer, alert.

There was an arm draped over the log. Dean’s arm.

“Dean!”

Dean’s eyes were closed, hair plastered to his forehead, trapped in the pained lines etched there. Above his right ear, Sam could see his brother’s hair matted with something thicker than water. Blood.

The gash underneath was jagged, but in the cold water, it had already stopped bleeding. “Dean, come on, man,” Sam called to him, shaking his brother’s shoulder. “Enough with the nap.”

As if on cue, Dean eyelashes fluttered sluggishly, water dripping from them and swirling down to the sand. “Says the guy who’s... always tellin’ me to sleep.”

Sam sunk into the sand, relief robbing whatever was left of strength in his legs.

“F’king boat,” Dean muttered as he rolled over to cough up half of the East River. “Told ya.”

His other hand, the one he hadn’t used to grip the log, was tangled in a piece of fabric. Sam pulled at it, finding their duffel half buried in the sand beneath Dean.

“You got our stuff,” Sam started with a relieved sigh. Without their gear, they were as good as any other tourists in that island. 

His joy, however, was short lived. While Dean had managed to hold on to the duffel inside the turbulent waters, the same couldn’t be said for the duffel’s zipper. “It’s busted,” Sam informed Dean. From the weight of the bag, he could already tell that most of their equipment was gone.

“Fuck.”

INTERLUDE II

Everything they had on was soaking wet. And getting wetter the longer they remained on that stretch of sand, under the pouring rain.

On his knees next to Dean, Sam shoved wet hair from his eyes and looked around. He caught glimpses of their surroundings with each flash of lightening. “We need to find some shelter,” he shouted. Between the wind, the rain and the crashing tide, the world had turned into a deafening place.

“What?” Dean volleyed over the torrent. Elbows resting on his knees, he wiped water from his eyes but didn’t really look up.

The wind was cold and with each passing second, it continued to rob them of whatever body warmth they had left, leaving their predicament more and more tenable. Clearly, they had to get moving and soon.

Sam turned slightly to tell his brother as much but what he saw left him frowning in an odd mix of concern and annoyance. Dean seemed to be completely out of it and incapable of actually registering where they were and what they had to do next.

Standing up and turning his gaze inland, Sam squinted into the night. The island wasn’t all that big, from what he remembered of the map, but the harsh conditions and darkness made it seem formidable; nothing more than the outline of trees was visible against the stormy sky. One fleeting flash of light as thunder rolled by, allowed Sam to glimpse something that seemed more man-made than the rest. 

“There’s some kind of structure up ahead,” he announced, already in motion to get Dean up and moving. “Come on, lets get out of this rain.”

The terrain was treacherous given the conditions and Dean’s wobbling. More than once, Sam found himself supporting Dean, steering him clear of bulging stumps, pushing through dense thickets, through deep rivulets that grew wider with ever step. But they’d made it, and just in time too. Dean looked ready to drop. 

The structure, as it turned out, was more like crumbled walls than an actual roof over their heads. According to their research, the island had housed an asylum at some point of its history, and Sam guessed that the half collapsed building that he was looking at was part of the complex that remained from that time.

A dull ache settled in the pit of Sam’s stomach as they climbed the faulty steps to get inside. Crossing the threshold where a large door used to be, they stopped to take it all in. The debris inside was mostly medical; abandoned gurneys, ripped yellow curtains, steel basins filled with rust and holes. The rest was dirt and dead leaves. Over the years, the forest had reclaimed what had been taken from it before.

It looked too much like Ellicott’s old hospital to be comfortable.

The ghostly and otherworldly mood of the place was slightly diminished by the orange glow of Dean’s lighter as he suddenly flickered it on.

“How did you get that to work?” Sam couldn’t help but ask. He was soaked to his boxers. The lighter he usually kept in his coat’s pocket, was lost, somewhere at the bottom of the river. 

Dean just shrugged, his own coat a dead weight on his frame, heavy and shapeless. “Superior intellect, I guess.” Somewhere in that coat, Sam was sure Dean had an insulated pocket. The bastard.

The place was a ruin, a very soggy ruin, with nothing in plain sight that Sam could deem dry enough to arrange a makeshift torch.

“That looks like a flight of stairs down, up ahead,” Dean pointed out, his arm extended towards the end of the hall. “Maybe it’s drier down there.”

_‘If the roof doesn’t collapse over our heads’_ they both thought, even if neither voiced it. As it was, the floor had enough gaps in it to make the idea of a dry place anywhere below them seem more wishful thinking than reality.

Dean was set to start climbing downstairs when Sam’s hand on his shoulder stopped him. “Lemme.”

It wasn’t really a request. Sam was going to go in front, whether Dean was happy with it or not. Given the state the rest of the building was in, it was more than likely that half the stairs were rotten or not even there.

Dean was still unsteady on his feet from their ‘colorful’ arrival at the island. There was no way Sam was going to let him take point on those steps and send them both crashing to their deaths.

Dean’s look of annoyance was his only real reaction and easily enough for Sam to ignore as he snatched the lighter from his brother’s cold fingers and walked ahead of Dean.

The lighter’s warm glow was more for comfort than illumination. All it seemed to achieve was to accentuate the fact that it was really dark in there. Sam ended up advancing more by touch, using his hands and feet to feel his way down the staircase, extending a cautious toe and tapping on each step in search of missing boards. It made for a slow and stressful descent.

Twice Sam’s foot disappeared down one of the steps and he’d had to quickly shift all of his weight back or risk falling down. “Rotten,” he called back, warning Dean about another tricky step.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Dean growled at the obvious.

The bottom step came as a surprising relief as Sam’s boot connected with stone rather than wood. There was a short dizzying moment, as Sam’s body expected to keep on moving down and his feet found themselves walking on the level.

Sam halted, trying to get his bearings, only to be shoved forward as Dean’s body collided with him from behind. “Watch it!”

Dean, apparently still annoyed with his little stunt upstairs, snatched his lighter back and turned around.

The whole area to the left of the stairs seemed to have completely collapsed under the weight of the upper levels and in the place where a reception area seemed to have existed at one point, there was nothing more than a large hole in the floor.

“Let’s see if we can get a fire started,” Sam offered. His wet clothes were clinging to his skin like drag weights and the river mud had, somehow, managed to coat half his exposed –and a portion of his unexposed- skin. Dean, he as sure, was no better off. “At least, get these clothes dry.”

Finding stuff to burn that wasn’t as wet as them was not an easy task, even in a floor less exposed to the elements. Sam went about searching for broken furniture and paper while Dean sat in more secluded corner and started going through what was left of their gear.

In the second room he tried, Sam hit the jackpot. “Hey, over here!”

The floor of the place was covered in ripped, old paper, most of it dry. Grabbing a couple of broken chair legs, Sam’s fire was well underway when Dean, feeling his way around in the dark, stumbled into the same room.

“Nice,” Dean whispered, watching as the fire caught and flared up to his knees.

Shrugging off their wet coats, shirts and jeans, the brothers sat near the fire, concentrating on little more than warming up. 

“How’s the head?” Sam asked. The silence was getting too pressing and all Dean seemed to be doing for the past hour was checking whatever was left of their gear.

It was spread on top of Dean's drying shirt. Two guns, stripped to their components and waiting to be cleaned and reassembled; a flask of holy water, stained white from their dunk in the river’s water but miraculously still closed and filled; an EMF reader, stripped to its bare components like it was just another weapon; Ruby’s knife, Dean’s lighter, a box of drawing chalk and a soaked cell phone.

Dean looked up from their depressingly short list of supplies. “ _I’m_ fine. _We’re_ screwed.”

Sam felt inclined to agree as he rubbed his arms for warmth. Two guns that might still work and a demon knife between the two of them wasn’t much, especially when they had no idea what they were dealing with.

And then, of course, there was the small problem of them being stranded on that island. It was certainly strange, when New York City’s sky-scrapers were the only things that they could see against the night sky, but without a boat or a phone to call for help, they might as well be on an island in the middle of the Pacific. Swimming in the tidal surges of the East River was possible but ill advised. “How the hell are we gonna get back?” Sam asked quietly, watching Dean fumbled with their remaining cell phone. “I guess calling is out of the question...”

Dean turned the cell phone in his hand. “For now, it is. Don’t think it’s broken, though. Just wet.” He seemed to think a moment. “I could try and fix it, give Bobby a call,” he said, his voice letting slip how much faith he was putting on that particular plan. “Or we could try and swim for it,” Dean suggested half-heartedly.

Before Sam could point out how utterly insane that was, he felt the change in the air. Dean must have felt it too, because he had picked up one more stack of files to throw in the fire.

Colder.

Despite being well on their way to becoming dry and with the fire burning right next to him, Sam could see his breath, smoking in front of his face. “Dean.”

He blew out a puff of hot air, just to make sure Dean was on the same page as he on what was going on in there.

Ghosts.

Dean looked longingly at the dismantled EMF reader. It was pointless to try and reassemble it before it was completely dry. It wouldn’t work either way.

“No salt?” Sam asked, hopeful that their large bag of rock salt had survived the trip.

“Salt. Water,” Dean supplied. “You know the math.”

Iron.

Somewhere in that ruin of a place there had to be _something_ made of iron that they could use to protect themselves.

Sam exchange one look with Dean and suddenly they were both bolting from the room, searching for the same thing.

The ghost was waiting for them at the collapsed door. “dOn’T bUrN!”

“Shit!!” Dean skittered to a halt so fast that Sam bumped into him.

It was a woman. Or rather, it had been a woman when she wasn’t transparent and shimmering.

She was wearing a long dress with long sleeves, covered with a starched apron with shoulder straps. The white cap on top of her messed hair with a faded red cross in the middle made it easy to identify her as a nurse.

“dOn’T bUrN!” she repeated, louder this time, like she feared they hadn’t heard it the first time around.

“I hear ya sister,” Dean said, carefully making his way back towards the fire. “No burning for you.”

Sam realized what he was doing. If she was that hung up on not burning, maybe fire would make her go away.

Dean was almost in the fire’s reach when the ghost realized what he was doing.

“DON’T BURN!!!”

The screech was so loud and powerful that both brothers were forced to cover their ears. Sam felt like his brain was ready to leak out of his ears.

Wind started to rise inside, moving around them, faster and faster. In seconds, it felt like they were inside a twister. Pieces of paper flew all around, colliding with them, scraping their skin and moving along in their wild as fast ride.

As soon as it had started, it was over.

“Bitch!” Dean yelled at the empty air.

It was pointless. The ghost was gone.

As was their fire.

INTERLUDE III

-SAM-

Sam watched Dean moved stiffly around the room, his face in a tight line and his hand occasionally finding its way to his lower back and rubbing. He stopped at the bowl of rainwater, courtesy of Sam’s forethought in thinking to replace the bottles of drinking water lost to the river, and scooped some up to take a long pull, groaning when he bent too far back.

“You okay there, old man?” Sam asked with a smirk on his face.

Dean didn’t even glance Sam’s direction. Still chugging water he raised his free hand and prominently displayed his middle finger.

Sam chuckled because really, he couldn’t blame him. When he’d woken this morning, he too had been feeling the effects of their previous days events. Muscles he’d never known existed, screamed and complained at every movement. Between their battle with the rough waters and spending the night, or what had been left of it, on makeshift beds they’d rigged from a couple of raggedy and questionable mattresses they’d found, they were both feeling sore and achy.

Still, Sam hadn’t had nearly as much trouble dealing with the after effects as Dean; since waking, he’d seemed to be struggling with the physical repercussions more so than Sam and it left the younger Winchester wondering how much of that could be attributed to his two recent concussions and how much was merely a consequence of Dean’s recent severe aversion to sleep.

Dean lowered their water collector back on the floor and smacked his lips before glancing at Sam. “Don’t suppose you thought to set a rabbit snare while you were out there catching rainwater, eh Daniel Boone?” he rubbed at his stomach, undoubtedly as hollow feeling as Sam’s.

“Funny,” Sam quipped and rose from his floor pallet, “but no. No rabbits. It was too dark for that. So, what do you want to do next? We can either spend more time scouring this building, see what we can find or take a look around outside, now there’s a bit more light to move around by.”

“Well,” Dean began, already picking up their stuff and moving toward the exit. “Nature calls so... nature it is, I guess.”

They moved carefully down the narrow hall toward the building’s main exit and once there stood still at the threshold, surveying that which had been largely shrouded in darkness and drenching rains upon their arrival. In the daylight, those rotten stairs looked even more dangerous than they had felt the night before. It was a wonder neither of them had fallen down. Now, they could see the heavily forested terrain that surrounded the ruins and how nature seemed to be engulfing all evidence of man’s ill fated inhabitation of the small landmass. The only sound around them was that of the fat droplets of rain as they smacked the abundantly thick leaves of the surrounding foliage of the forest beyond.

Dean emitted a low whistle. That was a lot of ground to cover.

“Do we even know whereabouts on the island those kids were? Or if they even made it to dry land?” Sam said, imagining, like Dean, that they would be searching that island until they were old men. 

“Michael swears they made it here so...”

“Right,” Sam agreed as he followed Dean closely down the front steps, “and according to the police reports, they didn’t search the island until after the funerals and only because of pressure from the families of the dead students. Michael’s insistence that they’d made it to the island had a lot to do with that.”

“And I’m sure the cops did a thorough job in their search,” Dean said with the appropriate amount of sarcasm and promptly grabbed at the railing as he nearly lost his footing. 

Sam drew up closer, drawing a silent sigh of relief when Dean righted himself and continued down. He bit his lip to keep from commenting. Sam had been hopeful last night, given how exhausted they’d both been by the time they’d bedded down that Dean would not only sleep, but that their physical exhaustion would lead to sleep deep enough to keep whatever demons he was dealing with at bay.

That hadn’t been the case, however.

Sleeping lightly came as a necessary byproduct of the job and Sam had heard the precise moment that Dean had gotten up. So Sam knew that Dean had spent much of the night moving quietly about the room, checking the few remaining weapons they’d had, tinkering with the broken cell phone and whatever else he’d been able to come up with to avoid sleep, and Sam was worried.

They both knew the dangers that came with this sort of problem. They’d known many a hunter who’d suffered from such an issue; it was only natural as this job was the stuff that nightmares were made of. Those hunters didn’t usually last long and the few who’d had partners often got them both killed. It was common knowledge; lack of sleep leads to a lapse in judgment and focus, both dangerous obstacles in their line of work. And last night, even with the both of them barely able to stand, Dean had slept little.

It wasn’t until the wee hours of the morning that Sam realized Dean had finally given in to sleep. But it had been short lived. The sounds of fear-filled moans and mutterings broke him from his light sleep and he’d watched as his brother had twitched and writhed, hands clenching and unclenching. Just as he’d decided to intercede and wake him, Dean had bolted upright.

Sam had met Dean’s eyes in that instant. They were wild and terrified, uncertain and lost. “You okay?” he’d asked. Dean had stared back at him blankly, as if he were seeing someone else, then the confusion cleared and he’d nodded.

“Yeah… I’m…” he hadn’t finished. Just got up slowly and began checking on their clothes as they hung near the re-lit fire to dry.

Knowing there was nothing to be said or done that he hadn’t already tried, Sam had sighed in resignation and rolled over, asleep once again in a matter of seconds.

They reached solid, albeit muddy, ground when Dean moved off sharply to the left, long strides telling just how urgent ‘the call’ had been. Sam moved to the right, his gait no less eager as he too moved to heed to his own date with nature.

-DEAN-

Once out of sight, Dean checked to make sure he was alone before he leaned against the side of the building and breathed a sigh of relief.

That building. God, he’d never been so glad to get out of anywhere in his entire life. 

Jesus, this was insane. Dean sighed and pressed his back into the wall. Closing his eyes he dropped his head back, intentionally banging it against the worn concrete, grabbing at the pain in hopes that it would ground him.

And Sam. If he got that ‘look’ from him one more time...

Annoyance, frustration, concern and... worst of all, pity. Dean didn’t need that, any of it. He needed all this shit to stop. Now.

_You know, it can stop any time you want..._

Dean looked around in panic. He knew he was alone. He could hear Sam, going about his business a few feet away, but too far away to be talking to him. But, most importantly of all, that wasn’t Sam’s voice he was hearing inside his head.

He didn’t even recognize that voice.

_Lemme introduce myself, Deano. I’m the only voice of reason you're going to get in this world. My voice is the one you’ll hear when you go to sleep, when you wake up and all the moments in between._

“No...” Dean whispered shaking his head in vehement denial. “Not real, go away.”

_You really think not? But I am real, Dean. I’m as real as the pain and guilt you feel. As real as the pain and torment you inflicted and you don’t get to just wish that away, Dean._

Dean’s hands came up and clutched at the sides of his head. “It wasn’t–” he stuttered for another agonizing breath. “I didn’t want to–”

_Well too fucking bad!_

A force shoved Dean back against the wall; Dean’s eyes flew open. A face, dark and cruel, distorted by years of death and rage stared back at him. It didn’t have a mouth or a nose; just eyes, red as blood, piercing him.

Hands twisted into Dean’s shirtfront holding him securely against the wall. “It’s too late for remorse; but not too late for regret, because I intend to make you regret the day you were born.”

Dean’s hands gripped something cold, wet and soft. The denim of his jeans was soaked through at the knees. He opened his eyes slowly. Wet grass, leaves and... death.  

Gasping in surprise, Dean shot back, ass landing in the mud and grass this time. Some kind of dead animal lay right where he’d landed on his hands and knees. A patch of its fur was missing exposing flesh at the creature’ side with a familiar carving on it. And as much as Dean didn’t want to see, he couldn’t help himself and inched forward to get a better look. A rune.

Dean felt a cold trickle of fear snake down his back. “Son of a–”

“Hey!”

Startled, Dean fell back on his ass again. “Dammit, Sam!” he shouted when he caught his breath. Clutching at his chest, he twisted and glared at his brother as he walked toward him. “Don’t sneak up on a guy like that.”

Sam threw his hands out slowly. “Dean, I’ve been calling out for the last five minutes. What are you–” the sight of the ground in front of Dean told the older Winchester he saw it too. “What the hell is that?” he asked, clearly indicating the carving on the dead animal’s side. 

Dean cleared his throat. He couldn't bring himself to look at the thing again.  “I uh, thought I heard something, went out to look around and when I got back I tripped over the thing.” He wiped his muddy hands on the thighs of his jeans. Sam was looking at him. Hard. “What?” he shouted defensively and rose unsteadily to his feet. “I tripped, Sam. It happens.”

Sam stood too and looked from his brother to the dead animal. “You know, vengeful spirits, _really_ powerful vengeful spirits have been known to pick on people and push them around. ”

“Yeah, and people have been know to slip on slippery ground,” Dean muttered. He was staring down at his hands, the mud and grass buried beneath his nails, plucking at the larger pieces. “One clumsy moment and a dead animal doesn’t necessarily make it the work of a vengeful spirit,” Dean added. When met with utter silence at his statement he looked up and there was that ‘look’ again.

“Where you there last night, when that _ghost_ attacked us?” Sam asked pointedly, voice dripping with sarcasm. “What would make you think it’s anything else?”

Dean was so not ready to go there. In fact, Dean would never be ready to go there. But Sam was demanding some kind of rationale for his statement, some kind of answer. “Call it a--” he started but when his eyes drifted down to the carcass.

_You don't’ get to just pretend this away, Dean. Let him see you for what you really are. Atone for your transgressions..._

Dean closed his eyes a moment, trying desperately to close his mind, his ears, his--

“Dean?” There it was. Back to concerned-Sam again.

Opening his eyes he stared hard at Sam a moment. “You’ll just have to trust me on this,” he said then looked down at his hands. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d kinda like to rinse some of this mud off.” Without waiting for an answer, he turned and walked away.

Walked. Not running but he might as well have been. Moving away from the evidence of his own evil. The rune. His rune. His mark, the one he thought he’d left in Hell. The only physical sign of just how far he’d fallen...

“Great,” Dean muttered angrily as he shoved another branch out of his face. “Now we get to walk around in the rain, on a stupid, overgrown – Ouch!” Dean slapped at the side of his neck. “Bug infested–” he continued stared down his palm. “Holy shit.” He spun and held his hand up, palm out toward Sam who had to skitter to a halt to keep from colliding with his brother. “Get a load of the size of this thing!”

“Dean–” Sam huffed, barely managing to right himself.

The rain had kicked in again, strong enough that it had actually washed out most of the mud Dean had managed to collect on himself. The free, cold shower, however, had done nothing for his bad mood. Mainly because it was coming down in buckets. Again.  

“Make that _big-ass_ bug infested island,” Dean corrected. Sam’s annoyed huff went largely ignored as he wiped the dead bug on his pant leg before continuing trekking through the thick undergrowth. “Remind me again why are we in this frigging place?”

Sam rolled his eyes, probably deciding it was best to ignore Dean’s foul mood. He shoved at a branch that, though it missed Dean, was just the right height to smack him right in the face. Dean glared, getting the message.

“If they were killed on the island, their bodies have to be around here somewhere,” Sam offered. “Plus, we need to figure out what killed them... if they’re really dead.”

“Right, right,” Dean said musingly. Nobody was dead until they could burn a body, that was the Winchester law. “That’ll be fun considering the few weapons we have are useless unless we’re shooting ducks and rabbits and those we do need are at the bottom of the fucking river!” he shouted, spinning to face his brother. "And have I mentioned how tired I am of being wet?”

“It’s just rain,” Sam said with a sigh. “And quit skirting the real issue.”

“Issue? I dunno Sam, there are so many to consider—”

“Stop being a smart-ass. You know what issue; the ‘why you think we aren’t dealing with angry spirits’ issue.” Sam said as he maneuvered over a fallen branch.

“I just think we should keep our options open. Be prepared for anything, you know how this job is.” Dean said with a shrug. “Besides, we ran into one ghost so far and she didn’t exactly strike me as the killing spree type.”

“I suppose,” Sam said and swiped at a swarm of gnats that hovered in front of him. “Could be we just haven’t found the right angry ghost yet.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Dean stopped and eyed their surroundings, his face indecisive and unsure. He could be standing at a crossroad, for all he knew. There was nothing but tall trees all around. “Um...” he hesitated. “Now what?” 

Sam drew up beside his brother; after a quick glance skyward, he wiped the rain from his face and looked back behind them. “I think we need to head north,” he decided and pointed left. “According to their reports, the cops did only a cursory search and last time he'd talked to them, Michael said his friends managed to get to two of the three buildings before...”

“Yeah, before they were eaten, or slaughtered or both.”

Sam blinked back at his brother through soggy hair that clung to his forehead. He brushed some of it out of his eyes and held out one hand. “Well, look on the bright side,” he offered meekly.

Growling, Dean shook his head, turned back around and pushed through the sodden ground, his feet squishing inside his boots. “What bright side—” his reply cut off with a grunt when he nearly went down in a heap; his leg sank thigh deep in water and mud and he’d have gone in all the way if not for Sam’s lunge and grab of his arm.

They both froze, taking a moment to catch their breaths. Dean glared at Sam, a challenge in his eyes. “You were saying?”

Sam grinned. “Compared to yesterday, it’s just sprinkling.” He looked down at Dean’s leg where it was still buried past his thigh. “And you didn’t take a header into that puddle.”

“Funny,” Dean said as he leaned back but found the so called puddle was more like thick, muddy goop and had a tight hold on his leg. “Son of a bitch…” Sam saw him struggle and immediately began pulling.

“As for the weapons,” Sam grunted and pulled harder when the quagmire seemed unwilling to release him. “We do what we’ve always done.” He heaved hard at the same time Dean threw all of his weight into his brother and the mud suddenly released its hold. The shift and force landed them both on the forest floor where they lay panting. “We improvise.”

Dean looked at Sam, mud splattered on his face and all over his clothes. “Ya’know,” he said wiping a large splatter of mud off his forehead. “For once, it would be nice not to have to pull something out of our asses.”

“Yeah, well,” Sam stood and pulled Dean up next to him. “With any luck, all we’ll be pulling out of our ass will be mud. Well, yours, at least,” he added with a smirk.

Dean rolled his eyes and was about to tell his brother exactly where he could shove his funny retorts when something caught his attention. 

“The hell is that...” he mumbled moving toward it.

“What?” Sam asked, trying to follow Dean’s gaze. But Dean was already moving, pushing aside branches and large leafed plants, shoving the forest aside so that he could reach whatev— “Woah. That’s...”

Dean stood at the edge of the clearing, Sam behind him, both of them gazing at the perfectly neat rows of white rocks. 

“A graveyard. Dean,” Sam whispered as he counted the rows and columns that seemed to go on forever. “There has to be... shit! two hundred plus graves here.”

“Yeah,” he agreed and moved out into the clearing, stepping carefully where the ground was so wet that depending on where he put his foot, the mud and grass seemed to tug at his boots, as if it were trying to suck him under. Under, where Alastair surely wait–

“Well, that settles it.” Sam sounded so suddenly sure that Dean had to turn and look at him questioningly, grateful for the interruption.

“What settles... what? How does this settle anything?”

“Our next move; we go back to the hospital building, take a look around, see if we can figure out who our angry spirit is, ‘cause this...” Sam said gazing around them.

“This would require a napalm strike the likes of Vietnam if we can’t narrow it down. And that’s _if_ it’s a vengeful spirit.”

“You still think it’s not.”

“Hey,” Dean shrugged, “I can tell you what I think but I can’t make you believe it.” Turning slowly, he slung off more mud from his left hand and began heading back the way they’d come. “C’mon, lets get back. I wanna wash this shit off me and try to dry off. Again. Then we can go play with Casper some more.”

Dean took no more than half a step when he felt a rush of cold air dash past. A voice washed through the frigid air, frantic. Pleading. “NoOOoO... hERe...”

Sam’s hands on his back were the only thing that kept Dean from being laid out on the swampy ground at their feet. Startled and breathing hard, both brothers stood stock-still, staring in the direction the whoosh of air had gone.

“The hell was that..?” he growled. Pulling away from Sam’s helping hands, he adjusted his muddy jacket but his eyes were locked on the trees that still swayed, marking where the ghost had disappeared into the dense forestry.

“Casper, I think.”

Dean twisted and shot Sam a dirty glare before squaring up and rolling his shoulders. “Casper or not, I’ve had about enough of this crap...” He stalked off in the direction of the ghost’s exodus.

“Wh—” Sam stumbled as he finally got past his shock and launched to follow. “Just what do you think you’re gonna do? Talk to it?”

“You know, I dunno,” and he didn’t. But he did know that whatever the hell was going in, it had less to do with ghosts and more to do with demons, but the ghost thing, it was getting weirder by the minute. “Doesn't it strike you as a little odd how these things are acting?”

“Well, I—”

“Right, they seem,” and just like that it came to him, “anxious. Eager to tell us something.”

“Man,” Sam started and after a sound that seemed like a chuckle, he could only duck as Dean let go of branch after branch, those that he’d shoved out of his way, sending them whipping back one after another. “Seriously–” he ducked again, “dammit, what the hell could–”

There was nothing he could say as he collided with Dean’s back. Sam would have cursed but he saw what had brought Dean up short and he froze.

“Well, hello Casper.” Dean said, voice low and curious.

The ghost was pacing. Actually pacing! Arms down at it’s sides, the woman kept shrugging her shoulders, head tilted to one side, face angled down, just... pacing. Dean’s eyes followed its every move, still trying to figure out what was happening. Obviously it was trying to tell them something.

Sam tried to put a reason to it first. “Is she caught in some death echo...?”

“I seriously doubt she paced herself to death, Sam” Dean stared at the woman’s face, noting the angle, her agitation and pacing increased, and his gaze followed the spirits, down. “Pacing...” he murmured and trailed his eyes down further until he finally saw it. “Holy shit,” he took three quick steps forward, Sam calling after him when the woman stopped and stared directly at Dean.

Her mouth opened wide, and blackness, followed by a blast of cold wind rushed out as she yelled, “NOoOOOooO... hERe....”

Squinting into the stale gust, Dean brought his arms up to shield his eyes a bit. “Yeah, I get it,” he shouted back at her.

The gust seemed to grow in strength and Dean had to cover his face.

“Dean!”

Sam’s shout sent warning bells clamoring and Dean lowered his arms too late to take avoiding action, but just in time to see the ghost fly right at him. The cold seemed to soak into his skin, her voice increasing in volume. “hERe,” her voice echoed and screeched in his head as he felt himself fall. “Evil. Run. Here!”

INTERLUDE IV

  


-SAM-

Sam reached out and steadied his brother. Again. “You wanna rest a bit?” 

This was the third time in as many minutes that he’d had to keep his brother from taking a header and they still had another mile to go to reach the hospital building. The ghost’s energy passing through Dean had done a number on him. He was still shivering, Sam noted, feeling the quake of his skin through the layers of clothing when their shoulders touched.

Dean twisted his shoulders and pulled free. “No, no resting.” Hands tucked into his pits, he pushed on. “Let’s just get back. Fu–fucking freezing out here.” 

Reluctantly, Sam let him go and followed. “Well, at least it stopped raining,” he offered as he came up alongside his brother.  “You know, Dean,” he gave his brother a sidelong glance. “You look really pale. Like–”

“If you say ghost,” Dean started, only to pause as a shiver ran up his spine and his body did a full visible shake. “I’m gonna s-s-start sw-swinging.”

Sam smirked. “Right, and you’d end up in a heap without me touching you.”

Dean stopped and glared at Sam a moment and just as suddenly as his ire had flared, it died. “C’mon,” he growled and managed to pick up the pace. “I gotta get outta these clo—” his sentence died as he collided with Sam’s outstretched arm. “Hey—”

“There.” Sam interrupted and pointed.

Not ten yards away, a spirit stood staring at them. Unlike the spirit they’d encountered at the unmarked graves, this girl seemed younger, maybe in her teens, though spectral appearance made ages a bit iffy to gauge. Her eyes moved from one Winchester to the other before settling, Sam swore, squarely on Dean.

“Aw, c’mon!” Dean shouted, his outrage directed at the ghost. “Can’t you cut us a friggin’ break?” 

In something that mirrored a response, the spirit cocked its head to one side and stared at Dean. Hard.

The spirit’s face grew dark and she darted forward threateningly. Sam’s protective instincts kicked in and he stepped in front of his brother. “Quit pissing it off,” he whispered out of one side of his mouth.

“Would you cut it out!” Dean snapped and grabbed Sam’s shoulder, effectively yanking him back. “I don’t need you to protect me!” he growled.

“Apparently you do,” Sam fired back and turned to face his brother, “because I don’t know if you’ve noticed this or not but our last encounter with a spirit on this island ended with you flat. On your back.” 

Sam’s assessment brought Dean up a little short and he cut his gaze over at the spirit; she wasn’t there. 

“Shit.” Dean breathed. “Where’d…” 

Sam saw as Dean pulled their EMF reader from his pocket, scanning the area. “Is that thing even working?”

A loud whining sound, coming from the device, answered Sam’s question. The ghost wasn’t gone. “I swear, it’s like playing friggin’ ‘Where’s Waldo?’” he murmured, turning in a complete 360 degrees.

“Over there!” Sam called and swallowed. This time, only the top of her head and eyes were visible as she peered at them, from behind a partially fallen tree. This time she was glaring accusatory. At Dean. 

“Okay,” Dean straightened. “Now that’s just creepy.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Sam braced his legs and kept a wary eye on her as he spoke. “So, you still think this isn’t the work of an angry spirit?”

“An angry spirit, sure,” Dean answered, “but that doesn't make them vengeful.” 

“Seriously Dean?” Sam snapped angrily. He'd had about as much of Dean's cryptic reasoning as he could handle for one day.

“Look, I think they’re pissed about something,” Dean argued, “but I also think there’s enough of them that, if they’d wanted us dead, we'd have stopped breathing by now.”

While Dean’s point seemed valid, Sam didn’t let it go. “Well, we keep traipsing around here, they’ll get to it, I’m sure.”

“Well I’m not.”

“Well,” Sam flapped his arms helplessly, “why?”

“Be–” Dean looked at Sam and lowered his voice. “Because it’s more like they’re trying to tell us –or me– something.”

Sam folded his arms in front of him and drew back. “Oh? And why’s that? Why you?”

Dean shrugged and canted back himself, mimicking Sam’s posture but not crossing his arms. Instead notching his chin up and squaring his shoulders. “I don’t know,” he said turning to face the ghost – she was out in the open now and not nearly as close as before, but she hadn’t taken her eyes off him. “But I’m sure as hell going to find out.” 

The older Winchester got no more than a step in the direction of the spirit before Sam grabbed him. “Oh no, you don’t,” he said, securing Dean by both shoulders and glaring at him. “Not this time. You’re staying here. Out of their cross-hairs. I’m going.” He was already shifting toward the ghost but still reluctant to release his brother.

“But—” Dean looked over Sam’s shoulder toward the spirit and – crap, it was smiling at him, but it was cold and unnerving, not a pleasant sort of smile. “What if you need help?”

Sam was already inching down the path but stopped and looked at Dean. “Just stay here. If something goes down, I’ll holler. But don’t move unless I call, got that?” he asked pinning Dean with an expectant gaze.

Dean’s mouth opened to protest again then he caught sight of the ghost over Sam’s shoulder. The thing had at some point moved to stand fully back in the center of the clearing, but it was drifting back, as if ready to take lead Sam somewhere. This was wrong, his mind screamed. This was his doing. He could get these things to–

“Dean!” 

“What!” Dean snapped and met Sam’s glare. “Fine. I’ll wait here, but …” he pointed at Sam. “You be careful.”

-DEAN-

Dean paced. The ground squelched and squished beneath his feet, soil and foliage soft and squishy from the latest deluge of rain. A cool wind had chilled the air and shook the trees, occasionally hard enough to shower him with rainwater collected in the leaves; but adrenaline and worry tamped down both the cold and the wet, leaving only a dull tremble. 

Alone, he had time to think. Time to wonder about everything he’d seen. That carved image on that dead animal; his signature. 

Something cold and ice blue swept by his arm and Dean halted abruptly. His breath came out in a cold cloud and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise in warning. “Son of a bitch,” he breathed, admitting internally that Sam had at least been right about the ghosts targeting him.  in his pocket, the EMF would not shut up.

Another bone chilling gust followed but this one seemed closer, stabbing through his wet, already chilled clothes, painfully dimpling his flesh. “Fine,” Dean said as he turned very slowly, “lets just try to be civil here–” He came eye to eye with the now familiar spirit from the grave site. 

“Oh, hell no,” he said and stumbled back a step, keeping a wary eye on her. When her hands lifted toward him he shook his head. “No-no, no touching, if it's all the same to you. I'm sure in your day–” he looked her up and down, “–when you were alive and all, you were a real looker, but we just need to be friends here, okay?”

She looked at him perplexed and if Dean didn't know better, just a little bit hurt as her hands lowered. 

Dean breathed a sigh of relief. “That's better,” he gave her a small uncertain smile. “So... how do we do this, huh?” He looked around uncertainly. “How do we figure out what it is you and your friends want?” he asked, more to himself than anything, but she heard and took another step toward him. 

Dean retreated a step, hands outstretched imploring her to stop the strange dance they had going on. “Wait! Alright? Just... wait.” 

And she did, cocking her head to one side and staring at him vacantly. “You mean we, you... you gotta do that,” he circled one hand in the air between them, “that some kind of ghost mind-meld thing to communicate with me?”

As if she were trying to answer, her mouth opened. Instead of a response he could understand, another blast of cold air shot toward him. 

“Son of a bitch!” Dean cursed, feeling like his extremities were about to fall over. He _liked_ his extremities.

What followed was far worse. A loud screeching sound, like a million nails on a chalk board that went on and on and on. Dean's hands instinctively shot up to cover his ears, for all the good it did.

It was that same sound that he’d heard when she’d passed through him, only this time it was sustained.  High and sharp, it raked across his skin, teeth, eyes, bladed across his scalp and he squinted against the onslaught. 

“No...” he tried to reason. “Wait. I–” The noise got impossibly louder and he doubled over. “Shit. Stop!”

But it didn't stop. The pressure was intense and he felt like his eyes were going to either implode or pop from their sockets. Feeling as if his heart had swollen in his chest, he instinctively began to retreat, only stopping at the feel of something solid with a scratchy surface at his back. A tree. 

“Lady--” he gritted out, squinting against the pain, growing desperate to put an end to this -- “you gotta... stop...” He felt something ooze beneath his left hand, leaking out of his ear and cutting a path down the side of his head. “I can’t--” His brain... his whole head was going to explode if she didn’t--

Then it stopped. Dean felt air rush from his lungs in relief. He opened his eyes and found her only inches from his face. His ears were still ringing. 

“Okay,” he panted, “you win. Clearly, talking isn't gonna get us anywhere and either way, this is gonna hurt like a bitch. So,” he stood up slowly, one hand against the tree for both support and to brace for the pending rush. “Go on, do your–your ghost mind-meld thing or whatev–”

The last word barely left his lips when she rushed forward. Her force consuming him, washing over him like a river of icy knives, driving under his skin, just below the surface. The rush of sound crashing against his brain, just like before but deeper, less grating. The darkness that followed was absolute. Eyes open or closed he couldn't tell. There was just. Nothing.

_“Give them back...”_

Color. Her voice snapped, sparking into the inky black.

It hurt. When she talked, it sent tiny shocks all through his body and every time his body wanted to push her out but he fought to hold her in. The energy, it was pure rage, palpable and blazing through him. “What?”

_“Fugitives. Monsters. Unfair.”_

“You-- you,” he felt weak, realized he was losing his ability to think. Consciousness was fading, the cold numbing his senses. “D-didn't kill those kids?” he ground back. That very question seemed to ignite her wrath further and Dean felt her energy spark sharp and bright. “Okay--- ca-- calm down. Wh-who then?”

_“Mar–”_

Dean waited longer this time, but it was getting harder to hold on. 

“M-Mar?” he pushed.

_“Mart.”_

“Bitch!” Another voice shouted from around them. 

Dean felt the energy double. Two of them. God, no way he could– her spirit suddenly convulsed. The shrill noise was back, etching along his nerves. “NO!” he shouted. He could feel her anxiety. 

She was thrust violently out. Dean felt her leave, like having his gut punched hard. The other energy, it was stronger, it remained and he couldn't do this. Not this one. It was too intense. Too much. The noise. The knives.

Dean felt himself fall. Felt a pit open up and swallow him... down.

~o~

_Ropes._

_No, colder._

_Chains._

_They held him prisoner. Eyes opening, the world went from black to fire, and fear._

_Spread eagle, chains bound his limbs, kept him pulled taut. Helpless. Powerless._

_This was...“Hell...” he panted. “No,” Dean shook his head in denial. “No. It can't be.”_

_“Sure it can, Dean.” Alistair. His face suddenly appeared, leering, looming at him over head, nine inch knife dripping with blood and entrails. “Trust you had a nice trip, but don't think you'll get off that easy next time.”_

_“Wh-What?” Dean looked at his wrists. It wasn't chains, not rope, the bindings were alive. Hands with talons that dug into his wrists and shoulders.  Monsters. Holding him, digging into his flesh to strike bone. “Aaargh..” he shouted in pain. “Y-you- I got out. You're not real.”_

_Alistair laughed. “My boy, you never left. You're still mine.” He looked at his knife, brandishing it in front of Dean's face. “Now, where were we...? Ah, yes.”_

_Something snarled and whined and Dean twisted to look behind him. Two black dogs sat, waiting impatiently at his back. At their feet, a woman writhed, the contents of her gut visible, and she still breathed, tears streaking down her face, tears and blood and meat..._

_“Now boys,” Alistair chided as if they were children. “It isn't polite to play with your food.”_

_The dogs snarled and Dean was sure some of the woman's flesh was hanging from the sides of their mouths. One of them yipped in complaint and Alistair sighed. “Ah, so I did.” He backed up and placed his knife on a table full of other bloodied instruments. “Well, a promise is a promise,” he finished and snapped his fingers._

_Dean was falling. The world rushed by, hands grabbed, raked at him, grabbed and nicked off chunks from his flesh until the ground rose up to meet him. Air driven from his lungs, eyes closed, he lay there breathing heavily. The sound of his own heartbeat driving fast and heavy in his ears._

_The sound of a growl off to his left and his eyes snapped open._

_Dean rolled slowly to his left and looked up. The black dog’s eyes gleamed bright yellow, drool and blood dripping from its teeth. But that wasn't all. A man stood next to this one._

_“And to think,” he teased unkindly, “that bitch almost ruined my fun.” The dog inched away from him and toward Dean. “Now, now, gotta wait for Spot, don't we? Won't do to start this dance without him.”_

_Another dog walked up and stood opposite the man, at perfect heel. It's eyes too were yellow, muzzle gleamed in something dark and thick; blood. The other dog rose to its feet now and both dogs were clearly itching to tear Dean apart._

_“No,” Dean shook his head, deep in denial as he rolled to his hands and knees. He felt he might throw up here and now. “This- this can't be.”_

_The man's face twisted in a cruel smile. “Sure it can. But you know,” he glanced down and that seemed to be the cue because both dogs started inching forward, their haunches spring-board tight, ready to launch. “You can make it stop.”_

_Dean shook his head again. “No, it already st--” he had to get a grip. It wasn't the first time he'd though about making it stop, but he had to deal. This, this wasn't... had to think. The ghost. What she had said... “Mart!”_

_The man's sneer melted. The dogs launched._

_The world spun, top over bottom. Side over end, the violent tumble sent Dean's stomach reeling._

And it stopped.

The world slowly formed in front of him. Light. Sunlight, out of place in–

Dean pushed to sitting position. Too fast. The world tipped and he with it, just managing to catch himself but not his stomach. Leaning over he heaved bile and spit into the leafy ground. When it was over, he coughed, dry heaved a few times until he was sure it was under control.

_“Your brother needs you...”_

Dean's head snapped up. A young girl, it was the same one that had led Sam– “Sam,” he said with a sudden overwhelming shower of fear. “Where is he?” he growled as he pushed unsteadily to his feet. His body felt numb and yet there wasn't a muscle that didn't feel bruised and wrung out. 

The girl didn't speak this time, just lifted a hand and pointed.  

Dean's eyes followed the direction she'd indicated and he suddenly realized; he was not where he had been before, when he and that ghost had mind-melded, or whatever. Consciousness, he remembered losing consciousness, but, before that–

He shook his head, trying to clear it. After that… ghost mind-meld thing, at some point he'd somehow ended up here. Wherever here was.

_“Your brother needs you...”_

“What?” Dean turned. The girl was gone. “Oh, shit.” This time he didn't hesitate; he took off. “Sam!”

-SAM-

“Sam!”

“Dean...?” Sam stood up and looked around. Nothing but half walls surrounded him, obviously able to withstand the passing of time as well as some of the other buildings. 

“Sammy!”

They nearly collided as Sam came around one of the still-standing walls at nearly the same moment as Dean rounded from the other side. Hands locked on shoulders to steady one another and Sam's eyes widened when he got a look at his brother. 

“Dean what–” Sam started then stopped to look at the area where Dean had just come from because the way he was moving, the way he looked, it appeared he was running from something. “Where the hell have you been?”

“God, Sammy, are you alright?”

“Am I–” Sam looked incredulously at his brother. Dean was a sight; wild-eyed, blood streaming from one side of his head– from his ear– and covered in mud and leaves. He looked ready to come out of his skin, and his hands, they were like ice where they gripped Sam's forearm. “Dean, I've been looking for you. Went back to where I left you and–” He looked Dean up and down. “What the hell happened to you?”

Dean seemed to settle, once he was assured Sam was okay. “She said you needed me, so...” he panted then backed up a step, his gaze catching on a spot just behind Sam. “Is that what I think it is?”

_She?_ Sam didn't take his eye off Dean for a full half-minute before turning and nodding. “Yeah,” he nodded, “just found it not too long ago.” He started to turn to pursue his earlier question but Dean walked right past him, toward the main center piece of the room. The table.

It was one of the ancient examination tables, obviously pulled to this area from the main hospital-- there was precious little left of this building. Five small bowls sat on another smaller table that had likely been used to hold instruments for whatever procedure was to occur. In this case, it would seem that the procedure had been some kind of ritual.

One startling thing decorated the entire ruined area. The exam table. The floor. What was left of the walls.

Blood. 

Dried but plentiful. One of the bowls was coated in it, the others were full of rainwater. Dean stood at the table staring down at it.

And Sam stared at Dean. “Dean, where were you?” he tried a little less emphatically. “When I lost the ghost, I went back for you and you were gone.”

“I uh,” his gaze slowly moved around the old ruins as he turned to face Sam, “I had a little run in with our touchy-feely ghost from the grave yard.”

Sam's head canted forward. “The– shit, it was a trick. To separate us.” 

“Apparently,” he said moving over to the bowls. Dirt, leaves and sticks floated on top of the water in each. “Remember when she passed through me before?” Sam nodded. “Well, this time she sorta... hung out.”

“Meaning...”

“She went in and stayed for a bit.” 

“You were ghost-possessed?”

“I prefer mind-melded. Like the Vulcan Mind Meld?”

“Dean, that takes a lot of mojo to pull off; it's not your garden variety ghost thing.”

“Yeah, I got that. Especially when I woke up in a different place.”

Sam stood back and stared curiously at his brother. Not for the first time, he worried about Dean. Not just for his physical health but, ever since he'd returned from Hell, he seemed shaky, erratic and a little too reluctant in the hunt. “You okay?”

“Aside from the pounding headache, peachy.” 

Sam turned away, trying to piece all of this out. And unsuccessfully. “And when I woke, that creepy kid ghost from before, she said you needed me so...”

Sam shook his head. “This makes no sense. Why would she posses you, and not...”

“Kill me?” Dean finished and Sam nodded reluctantly. “Because she's not a vengeful spirit, Sam. That's what I've been trying to tell you.”

“Then what's the point, Dean. Why–”

“Because,” Dean cut him off. “It seemed to be the only way to talk without my head exploding.” He pointed at the trail of dried blood on the side of his head. “All I can figure is that maybe she's been dead so long that she's forgotten how to talk, or maybe she was a mute in life or something.” 

“She talked to you? What'd she say?”

“Aside from the gibberish, nothing much. But I remember asking her directly about the college kids and her saying they weren't responsible.”

“And we’re going to buy it because... a ghost that _possessed_ you told you so?”

The look Dean threw him was half pissed off and the rest resignation. He couldn’t be so far gone that he’d forgotten how narrow sighted spirits could be. Black and white in ghost-land did not always translate into the same colors in the land of the living.

“Yeah, Sam, I think we do. Look, I know you want to blame this on some vengeful ghost but look around you, man! There's more evidence that something else is going on here.”

Sam couldn't argue that and backed off, albeit reluctantly. “Yeah,” he said eyeing their surroundings. “Looks like a ritual site.”

“Exactly,” Dean followed up quickly. “And for all we know, this could also be the reason we’re seeing all of these spirits walking around.”

While his gut told him there was more to it, that regardless of what he saw, Dean was hiding something from him, Sam had to concede this one. “So, yeah, maybe the spirits weren’t the ones responsible for butchering those kids, but I bet you they’re involved somehow.”

“Fine,” Dean, reluctantly, agreed.

“Fine,” Sam mimicked, even though he was not fine at all with Dean’s apparent disregard for what was right in front of him.

As one, they both started moving carefully around the room, pushing trash and leaves around on the floor, often stopping and picking something up to examine it closely.

“Jesus,” Dean murmured, picking up a large, rust coated knife left on the floor. Looking closer, he realized it wasn't rust. “Blood all over the place.”

Sam looked over his shoulder and nodded agreement. “Definitely some kind of blood ritual.” He moved away but glanced at Dean curiously. “So, you learn anything else from your little spirit encounter?” he asked. He noticed the second Dean's face seemed to shudder before the tight control he always held onto was back in place.

“Nah,” Dean shook his head and seemed far too interested in something beneath the altar table. “It got a little weird after that.” 

Maybe it was the evasiveness, or the way he said it but that got Sam's attention. “How so?” he asked looking point blank at his brother.

Dean hesitated, wondering how much he could omit without raising suspicion. 

“When she was _in me_ , it was like this low buzz electric current, like that time we touched that low-volt electric fence; just a steady stream. Then,” he seemed at a loss to describe it. “Then it was like I could feel another energy, this one way stronger – maybe why I passed out – but it seemed to push her out.”

“Wait.” Sam smirked at his brother. “You fainted?”

Dean raised a brow, showing how much he despised the term. “I momentarily lost track of my senses... in a manly way,” he corrected, miffed. “Hence, _passed out_ .”

Sam nodded, not really listening. Internally, he was eyeing his brother and reassessing Dean’s outer condition. He moved closer to his brother. “So, you think she took you out for a stroll...?”

“There's a disturbing thought...” Dean replied but clearly engrossed in something as Sam moved in to see what it was. “Would you look at this,” he reached in and between the tips of his fingers picked up a small rectangular item. He looked back at Sam. “Cell phone.”

“Yeah,” Sam swallowed. “Covered in dried blood.”

“Yup,” Dean inched back and Sam followed as they both stood to examine their find. Thumbing the power button the phone came out of sleep mode; the wallpaper was a clear image of a young girl with a familiar face next to her. Michael.

“Dammit,” Sam sighed.

Dean merely nodded. He pressed the menu button and... “Sam,” he held it up to show his brother, “it still has juice in the battery!”

“For real? How can it possibly still have any power left?”

“Don’t care,” Dean rushed to point out. “What matters is that I can give up on fixing ours and use this one before it dies,” Dean finished with a smile, his fingers already pressing familiar numbers. He waited a few seconds, fingernail trapped between his teeth, nibbling in distraction. The taste of blood and mud had just registered when the call was finally answered. “Bobby?” he asked, spitting the taste out in disgust. “Hey... no, we’re good. Say... are you busy in the next couple of days?”

INTERLUDE V

  


The building was as gloomy and creepy during the daylight as it was during the night.

Vines had replaced the ceiling in some places and the trees had started to grow inside rather than out. It lent the whole structure a sense of wilderness and abandonment that did little to set Dean at ease.

“What are we even looking for?” Dean asked. Exhausted, he just wanted to lie down and sleep for a week, to rest and allow his bruises to fade, those that marred his skin and those he kept hidden below.

Sam paused, trying to get his bearings. “You saw that grave site, Dean,” he said. “That was an awful lot of graves. Hospitals aren’t even supposed to _have_ graveyards.”

“Typhoid Mary died in here, did you know that?”

“And you know that why?” Sam asked.

“Guy Bobby knew hunted her down,” Dean supplied with a shrug. “Burned her bones right in this place.”

“Typhoid Mary turned into a vengeful spirit?”

Dean’s eyes lingered on his surroundings, trying to imagine how it must’ve looked like in those days. He figured it couldn’t have been much nicer. “Wouldn’t you?” he pointed out casually, his fingers brushing against an old gurney ‘parked’ against the wall. The metal was rusty and the white paint had all but peeled off. The coppery smell of rusted metal was so strong in the air that it felt like they were stuck in a pool of blood.

Dean had imagined that Hell would smell of sulphur and sweat, of shit and fear. Those smells were certainly there too, they were a part of the foul mixture, but none of them managed to mask the smell of blood. It was _everywhere_ .

A prison made of blood and bones, Meg had called it. She had been deadly accurate about that.

The smell of coppery rust, while not exactly the same, was enough to turn Dean’ stomach.

Despite the nausea, he couldn’t just turn tail and walk out. Sam believed that the answer to the murders of Michael’s friends was somewhere in the remaining structure of the hospital and Dean was far from ready to admit that the smell of the place was making his heart race and messing with his mind, making unsure as to where he was.

It hadn’t been that bad the night before, when they’d taken shelter. Maybe it had been the heavy rain, maybe it had been his concussed head, but Dean hadn’t noticed the smell before. Now, it was impossible to ignore.

“That one looks like some kind of office,” Sam called out from the end of the corridor. “I’m gonna check it out.”

Dean nodded, struggling to figure out how Sam had gone from standing right beside him to where he was now. Dean hadn’t even noticed him moving.

The light shifted ever so slightly and Dean almost jumped.

“Get a grip, Dean,” he hissed to himself.

Knuckles curled around the hilt of Ruby’s knife, Dean moved forward. A demon knife wouldn’t do much good with vengeful spirits, Sam had pointed out to him. It wasn’t even made of iron. Dean had flipped him the bird and Sam had just shrugged it off as one more of his brother’s quirks.

Dean was fine with that notion. Better to call it a quirk than to tell Sam what he could feel deep in his bones. A demon’s presence. Nearby. 

There was something scratching at the wall, the sound coming from near a metal staircase curling upwards.

The stairs, with a central piece that disappeared into a hole on the ceiling into the upper floor, looked like a human spine. Long, knobby and stretching up.

The floor creaked under Dean’s boots, moaning in complaint about the intrusion of strangers in a place that was long dead, ready to be buried and forgotten under the forest.

The scratching sound was more noticeable near the opening in the ceiling. Moving carefully, Dean set one foot on the first step and peered up.

One blink in which time paused. And then...

A deluge of red liquid came crashing down like the skies had chosen that precise moment to open up on him. Dean had no time to react; his eyes closed on reflex just as the liquid hit his face, but the fact he wasn’t seeing it did nothing to hide the inner realization he had about what the red liquid was. 

Blood. 

Hot and fluid, as if pumping directly from a living being. Gallons and gallons of it, pouring down and Dean couldn’t move an inch to get out of its way.

It washed over him like a forced baptism. It coated him completely until it was part of him.

Dean only realized that he had stopped breathing when his chest started burning. His mouth opened without his consent, lungs desperate for air taking him out of the equation of decision-making.

Expecting to get a mouth full of blood, Dean cringed, bile already rising in his throat in anticipation.

The absence of anything touching his lips made him open his eyes again. Heart racing and gasping for breath, Dean looked around. There was nothing there.

No blood.

No evidence of there ever been there any blood, certainly not the gallons that he had felt falling over him.

But... he had _felt_ it.

Dean ran a shaking hand over his face. What the hell had that been all about? Ghost echoes usually replayed the dead person’s last moments, not some crazy shower of blood that achieved nothing more than to rattle Dean’s mind.

That had been no ghostly replay, he was sure of that. For one, there was no replay. But it hadn’t been real either.

Dean could find no explanation for what he’d just experienced. No explanation that he wanted to voice anyway, because to tell himself that he was losing his mind would only make it real.

“Hey, you alright?”

The hand on his shoulder made Dean jump in the air and reach for his gun. Fortunately for Sam, Dean stopped himself in time. “Jesus, Sam!” he breathed out, taking a step back to put some distance between them. “Make some noise or something, will you?”

“You losing your hearing?” Sam said. He looked pissed off for some reason. “I called you like three times. You were just... spaced out.”

Dean looked deeply into his brother expression, hoping to see some sort of sign that Sam was seeing the blood that had fallen. Maybe it was there, all over the floor and Dean wasn’t seeing it. But all Dean could find in his brother’s eyes was suspicion and doubt. And _the look_ .  “I’m fine.”

It was the wrong thing to say.

“Yeah, you look just fine,” Sam rushed to say as sarcastically as he could manage. And he could manage a lot.

“I just... thought I saw something,” Dean said, sounding too defensive even to his own ears. ”You find anything?”

The change of topic felt forced and desperate, but Dean was glad Sam let it slide.

“Cockroaches, spiders and various other indigenous bugs that didn’t really like me snooping around,” Sam informed, brushing dirt from his clothes. “This place is a health hazard.”

Dean nodded, risking a glance up, towards the opening on the ceiling.

“Think there’s something upstairs?” Sam asked, following his gaze. “This stairs look about ready to fall.”

“The place was emptied decades ago, Sam. I doubt they left anything important behind.”

Sam spun around slowly, running a hand through his hair. “So, what? We dig up all the graves, burn the bones of over 200 people and hope one of them belongs to the ghosts that have been haunting us? Or better yet, turn tail and give up?”

_Yes!_ Dean wanted to open his mouth and let the word escape. Yes, he wanted to leave that place, no matter how much it pained him to fail Michael.

He remembered all too well the younger boy he’d been they'd first met, the resolve on his face as he'd agreed to put his life in their hands.

Dean shivered. The feeling of dread in his stomach was building, yelling at Dean to forget about all that and just go. Get out. Leave. Now!

Dean shook his head. There was something terrible wrong with this whole thing, or maybe there was something terribly wrong with him, he couldn’t tell which. But they were fumbling in the dark and in their line of work, that could be more dangerous than walking blindfolded on top of a skyscraper.

“Is it just me, or did the temperature just go arctic on us?” Sam whispered, raising the piece of broken metal chair in his hands defensively.

The way both brothers moved seamlessly to stand back to back was totally instinctive. 

Dean felt it now and held Ruby’s knife at chest height, eyes darting around the corridor. Inside, he was kicking himself for being so distracted with what had happened that he hadn’t even noticed the change in the room’s temperature.

“Something’s coming,” Sam whispered, body coiled for action.

A part of Dean was expecting the same ghost of before, the woman from grave yard, the one with the body-hopping fetish. Instead, it was a little boy’s head that peeked at them from behind the door.

Ghosts of children; Dean hated them the most. A life ended violently, before it had truly begun. They always managed to lure him into thinking that they were harmless. “Heads up,” he called to Sam, making sure his brother was aware of the same threat.

The kid, however, didn’t seem all that intent on attacking them. “Hello?” Dean called out heedfully. It felt weird to be actually talking to a ghost; it was a little like trying to play chess with a lion.

The kid, big round eyes in a gaunt face, focused on him for a few seconds, blinking in and out of existence like there was interference with his ‘signal’. His tiny frame was covered with a light gown, dirty and filled with holes. Dean wondered if he’d been a patient there.

“You’re not like them,” the kid whispered. His voice sounded much too deep to be associated with such a tiny frame. “You’re not like them,” he repeated. Then he turned and moved towards the door.

One look exchanged with his brother and Dean followed, knowing that Sam would be only a couple of steps away. He'd no idea what the boy meant, but the fact that he didn’t attack or simply blink out of existence when they followed him made Dean suspect that this ghost wanted something. From them.

Like Claire, the ghost of the woman murdered by that corrupt detective in Baltimore, there had been no vengeance in this kid’s eyes. Only a sense of despair.

The ghost of the kid led them straight to the rusty remains of thee large furnaces.

A large hand on Dean’s arm stopped him from moving any further. “This could be a trap,” Sam warned.

Dean shrugged off his brother’s fingers and his concern. Trap or no trap, there was something in there that had called that ghost’s attention and Dean was going to make damn sure that it hadn’t been for nothing. Besides, ghosts weren’t prone to use their ghostly brains and pour them into finding elaborate schemes to murder people. They were kind of like the Hulks of the supernatural world. Smash! was usually good enough for them.

“Okay, kid,” Dean announced, stepping inside the ruined walls that had once been some kind of cremation site. “We’re here. What do you want from us?”

The kid looked at him for a few seconds before disappearing. Dean looked around, thinking that he was going to see the ghost someplace else, urging them to go on. Instead, the large furnaces all came to life at once.

“Whoa!”

The exclamation had little to do with awe and all to do with blast of heat that hit both Winchesters straight on, almost knocking them off their feet.

As fast and furious as the blast of fire had hit them, it vanished without even a trace of burned wood in its wake.

“Okay,” Sam let out, very consciously slowly his breathing to a more normal pattern. “That was... different.”

“No shit,” Dean whispered, feeling as shaken up as his brother looked. Taking a deep breath, he moved closer to the furnace in the middle.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sam called to him, looking at Dean like he’d completely lost his mind.

Dean was almost inclined to agree with him. “I just wanna check something out.”

“In the giant furnace that was active just seconds ago?”

“Remember the first ghost we encountered?” Dean answered, ignoring the level of sarcasm that was dripping from Sam’s words. 

“The one who took out our fire?”

Dean nodded. “She said not to burn. At the time, I figured she was talking about her own bones, but now...”

“You think she meant this.”

Very much aware that if the kid’s ghost decided to give those furnaces a repeat performance he would be quite literally toast, Dean carefully moved forward.

When he touched the metal door of the furnace, Dean half expected it to be hot. Instead, his fingers met a cold and still somewhat wet surface. Opening it, Dean peeked inside.

There were remains of burned paper piled in the round space, perfectly preserved as if whoever had tossed them there had done so just a few hours before. Dean could still smell the acrid fumes of burned paper.

Pushing around the fragile fragments with the tip of the knife in his hands, Dan felt the blade hit something hard. The sound was different, metal like the rest of the furnace, but thicker.

After pocketing the knife, Dean reached inside. There was a large box hidden beneath the rest of the debris. Finding it too heavy to lift with just one hand, Dean reached with both to pull it out.

It was in that precise moment that the furnace decided to come to life once again.

The presence of fire was so sudden and solid that Dean wasted half a second staring, watching in morbid fascination as the flames engulfed his arms like hungry wolves. The heat came next, so intense and deep that even Dean’s scream burned inside his throat, unable to escape his lips.

He dropped the box in haste, watching detachedly as it fell to ground and bounced once before his body lost all strength.

He burning alive, slowly being consumed by the fire. The smell of roasting pig was so overwhelming that Dean almost puked.

Sam, who should’ve been helping him, was just standing there, looking bored.

It was Sam’s lack of reaction that made Dean pause, swallow the mind-numbing pain and look at his charcoal arms. He almost screamed anew as he saw the perfectly healthy skin, without a trace of burns.

It had happened again. Right in front of Sam.

“Humm... what are you doing, Dean?”

Dean felt silly and ashamed, sitting on the dirt like a five year old that’d just discovered the wonders of mud. “Found something,” he covered, lamely, as his fingers reached for the fallen box. He half expected it to feel hot when touched.

The sight of the black metal box in Dean’s hands, however, was enough to divert Sam’s interest. “What’s that?”

Dean resisted the urge to say ‘a box’. There was a lock in the front, surprisingly sturdy after all the years it had been left hidden inside that furnace. Looking around, Dean quickly found a rock that suited his needs. “Hand me that, will ya?”

Time had eroded most of the resistance the lock could’ve offered to the two sharp thwacks that Dean delivered.

With Sam’s presence, looming over his shoulder, Dean pushed the lid open. They had no idea what could possibly be inside, but it was fair to guess that it was something important. There weren’t that many things that urged ghosts to go out of their way to help errant humans.

There were four files inside the box. Brown folders, faded with age, with handwritten papers filed inside that looked so fragile Dean feared they might disintegrate as soon as he touched them.

“Well,” he paused, letting the disappointment flash clear on his face. “That’s helpful.”

Sam, apparently more hopeful than Dean was feeling at the moment, picked the first one. “William Bowe, age twenty three,” Sam read, eyes skimming through the text filled page. “Says here he was tested for the presence of ‘ _gemmules_ ’ and, when none were found, he was transfused with the blood of a Jack Bowe.”

“What the hell is a _gemmule_ ?” Dean asked as he opened a second file. “Martin Bowe… thirty. They were looking for the same thing in his blood.” 

“I’ve never heard of it before. Whatever it is, it might be called something different now. Or not exist at all,” Sam pointed out, his eyes never lifting from the text on the pages. “Humm… I guess the rumors Michael heard were. This thing was written over a hundred and fifty years ago, well before there was even a hospital here.”

“Well, whatever those _gemmules_ things were, they were supposed to be in their blood. They all died from lack of it,” Dean pointed out. “Also, I think they were all related to each other.”

Catching Sam’s inquisitive look over the rim of the file he was reading, Dean showed him the third and fourth files. “They were all named Bowe. I’d say brothers or cousins, from the close ages. Jack, Jim, William and Mart–” 

Dean stopped, looking back at the first file he’d picked up. Like the others, the first page had an old, black and white and faded picture of the patient in question. Martin Bowe’s black eyes in the picture were looking straight at him, defiant even on paper. “The touchy ghost...”

“What about her?”

“She mentioned a 'Mart' was responsible for the kid’s deaths. Think Mart was short for Martin, as in,  Martin Bowe?”

“Well, if I’m reading this right,” Sam let out slowly, flipping one more page. “He had more than enough reason to be pissed off at the world and out for blood. I think the people in this island were doing experiments. On humans.”

Dean twisted his nose, like he’d smelled something foul. “What makes you say that?”

“Found a sort of synopses of the theory they were trying to prove,” Sam went on. “They were trying to find the _gemmule_ responsible for violent behavior. A gene, maybe?” Sam wondered. “Anyway, they used the Bowes because they were brothers, all four of them violent criminals. When they found the _gemmules_ absent, the doctor in charge decided that maybe the quantities in each of them were too small to be detected. “

“Eh,” Dean looked away in disgust. “I don't like where this is going...”

Sam nodded but continued reading. “So, the scientists decided to increase the numbers of what they were looking for by passing the _gemmules_ in the blood from one brother to another. Guess we can call this the dawn of genetics,” he said, the look on his face clearly saying that he’d rather call it something else. Something as nasty as what those ‘scientists’ had been doing in that place.

“And the idiots decided to do that by passing along blood transfusions?” Dean asked, already knowing he wasn’t going to like the answer.

Sam nodded. “Remember, this was way back in the day. They had no idea about blood types. From what I’m reading here, all four of them died shortly after receiving a massive blood transfusion from one of the other three. They developed high fevers, their urine turned red…”

Dean looked sick. “Spare me the details, please.”

“I think they all died of blood poisoning,” Sam said, looking a bit green around the gills himself. With the kind of life they lived, basic blood transfusions had been one of those things that, much to Sam’s annoyance, their father had forced them to learn how to do. Figuring out which of them was compatible with who had been one of the first steps to assure something of the likes he was reading never happened to them.

“That’s a nasty way to go,” Dean whispered, trying to imagine how much worse it would’ve been in the middle of the nineteenth century.

“Nasty enough to turn them into vengeful spirits, wouldn’t you say?”

Dean nodded, even though he didn’t entirely agreed with Sam. Sure, four people of the same family, being used as lab rats and ultimately dying from human stupidity was more than enough to turn them into nasty ghosts. But something inside was telling him that there was more to this than what he was seeing. There had to be something else, or else every hunter in Europe would be dealing with the massive clusterfuck that were the Nazi camps from back in WWII.

“You don’t look convinced,” Sam accused him.

Dean got to his feet, dusting off his hands in the back of his jeans. There had been a time when he could’ve just said to his brother that something was wrong just because his gut told him so. Things didn’t work like that anymore. “Does it say where they were buried?” he simply asked.

Sam gave the papers another look. “Not really. I’m guessing the graveyard we found earlier?”

“Lead the way.”

INTERLUDE VI

There were no names on the graves. Just numbers.

The whole thing stunk too much of an Auschwitz reprise for Dean’s taste. Given what he had read on some of those files, he guessed that maybe the comparison wasn’t that far off from reality.

“How are we supposed to know which ones we need?”

It was easy to hear the note of frustration in Sam’s voice but Dean was too busy studying the area to answer. The rows of graves extended as far as the eye could see. And that was only the ones that hadn’t been engulfed by vegetation.

“At least it's not a mass grave,” Sam mumbled to himself. “I suppose that makes it easier.”

Dean was kneeling in front one of the graves, fingers digging into the still wet dirt. He grabbed a handful of gravel and smiled. “Well, the unholy ground helps.”

Sam looked around, blinked. “The whole thing is unholy ground, Dean,” he pointed out, exasperate. “Don’t think they actually concerned themselves all that much with consecrated ground to bury the bodies of the people they treated as guinea pigs and eventually killed.”

Dean nodded, getting to his feet and taking a step back. “No, I don’t suppose they did,” he agreed. “But the perfectly circular patch of ground around a grave where nothing seems willing to grow, helps a bit.”

He was being smug, Dean was aware of that. But his head was killing him, their Tylenol had drowned with the rest of their stuff and watching Sam trying to disguise his bitch face worked almost as well as any painkiller. Besides, this was all going to be one huge waste of time.

Whatever this thing was, it had nothing to do with ghosts. The carved animal that they had found before had been no coincidence.

Dean knew it had been left for him to find. Which meant that whoever had done it, was no ghost. It could not be.

The ground was still slightly wet from the previous downpour, something that would’ve made their job easier if they had a single shovel between the two of them. The shovels, unfortunately, were at the bottom of the river, alongside most of their gear.

They had to make due with broken metal chair legs they'd scrounged from the hospital, and low hanging, thick branches they'd pulled off surrounding trees. They were still poor substitutes for the right tools and not only made digging that much harder, but it took twice as long.

“Feel like a frigging caveman,” Dean complained as he pulled yet another dry root from the ground.

“And that’s not even our biggest problem,” Sam pitched in, wiping the sweat off his forehead. His hair was already plastered to his head from the effort. “We still have your lighter, so fire won’t be a problem, but what're we going to do for salt? Unless...”

Dean looked at him. Sam was twisting his nose, like he’d smelled something foul. “This is gonna be disgusting, isn’t it?”

“Necessary,” Sam corrected, resolute in his notion that what mattered was getting the job done. “Human urine is mostly water and sal—”

“No... no, no, no,” Dean stopped him before he could get any further. “We are not –and I stress the WE-  are _not_ pissing on these corpses, okay?”

Sam’s lips pressed into a hard line. “Then how do you suggest we do it?”

Dean rubbed his eyes. He was so tired he could feel them watering. “Been thinking about that,” he paused, stretching up before walking over to their bag and pulling out the flask of holy water. “See those white stains in the metal? That’s salt right there.”

Sam picked up the flask, sniffing. They were close enough to the Narrows for the Atlantic water to start mixing with the Hudson River. “You think it will be enough?”

As he picked his makeshift shovel, Dean smiled. “Bet you there’s more salt in that river than there is in your piss, Mr. I-eat-healthy.”

Sam snorted. “Trying to burn wet bones,” he mumbled, throwing dirt with more fierceness than necessary. “That’s gonna be easy... and fun.”

The smell hit them like a wet slap. It was the sweet and sour peculiar smell of rotten flesh.

Dean coughed and backed up a step, the stench like a physical shove. “Jesus,” he said, shielding his mouth and nose into the crook of his elbow. “I thought the file said these guys died over a century ago.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, voice muffled in the sleeve of his jacket. “Around 1862.” He sounded every bit as confused as Dean felt. 

Whatever it was they were smelling at the moment, it was most definitely not old bones.

There was no coffin. That much Dean had expected. The feeling of his improvised shovel sinking deeply into human flesh, he had not.

“Fuck!” he let out, falling back on his butt. The piece of furniture he had been using to dig stood erect, like a morbid flag, stuck inside a human torso. From the gash, bulbous pieces of blackened bowels slid outside. “Motherfuc-- I think we just found Michael’s friends,” he added, trying to keep the bile in his mouth from spilling out.

“I think you’re right,” Sam agreed, poking at what appeared to be an arm that seemed to have the same consistency as a jellyfish.

If Freddy Krueger ever came up with a jigsaw puzzle of his own, this would be it. By the end of the day, Sam and Dean had managed to uncover enough body parts to be certain that all of Michael’s friends were present and accounted for.

They hadn’t just been butchered; their bodies had been methodically and expertly cut into pieces and shoved inside those ancient graves. From the amount of blood they had found in the ritual place, Dean would guess that those kids had been alive when most of the mutilations had occurred. The idea alone sent a shiver up his spine.

“Still think spirits did this?” Dean couldn’t help but to point out. Angry spirits were capable of many things; some could even alter reality around them. But this level of violence and bloodshed? That level of patience and control? Angry spirits were incapable of maintaining it long enough to murder six people in this way. 

Whatever or whoever had done it, had certainly not been flesh and blood. The soil, before he and Sam had started digging, had been just as undisturbed in those graves as in the rest of them. They would’ve noticed it otherwise. 

It took a special kind of mojo to be able to transfer a body six feet under without moving a grain of dirt.

“The bodies aren’t here,” Sam noted. Seeing the doubtful look Dean was throwing him as they stood knee deep in bodies, Sam went on. “The original bodies, the ones that should’ve been inside these graves. The Bowes.”

He was right. They had taken out every piece of human body that they’d found inside those holes, but ‘fresh’ corpse was all they had found. “Zombies?”

“Whoever was buried here, there would be nothing but bones now,” Sam thought out loud. “Does that even count as a zombie?”

Zombies didn’t fit either, Dean was sure of it, even though he’d been the one suggesting it. Every zombie they’d met so far had been brought to life against their will and they all turned violent towards the living. But that ritual site and the way those kids had been killed... “I don’t know... maybe the same thing that performed that ritual dug up these bones... maybe the bones were needed for the ritual itself,” Dean ventured. “Either way, we need to burn these bodies.”

Angry spirits or not, these were Michael’s friends and they had suffered a violent death. They couldn’t take the risk of them being stuck on that island for eternity.

By the time they were done, the sun had already long set. Their faces lit by the glowing fire of the bodies’ remains, Sam and Dean had barely noticed the nascent darkness.

The night wasn’t particularly warm and the ground wasn’t entirely dry, but a fire was a fire. Sam and Dean in unspoken agreement lay down to rest their weary bodies in the graveyard.

Human remains took a long time to burn into ashes, and Dean wanted to have that to bring back to Michael. It was the least they could do.

~o~

Dean woke with a start, heart racing inside his chest with nowhere to go. It felt like he had just run a marathon, even though his eyes were telling Dean that he was still in the same place where he and Sam had crashed down for the night. Well, where Dean had finally crashed after sneaking out on his brother to get himself some insurance. Just in case Sam was wrong about the ghosts and zombies.

Now, Sam was nowhere to be seen. 

Dean figured that was all for the best. He had already suffered through too many freakouts the previous day with Sam as a witness; Dean could use having one without Sam’s concerned and pitying gaze upon him.

He couldn’t even remember the specifics of what he’d been dreaming of but Dean could take a very educated guess at what the content had been. 

Hell.

After all, if people’s dreams were based in their experiences and memories, what else could Dean hope to dream of after forty years of nothing but blood and gore and suffering? It was hard enough to remember his life of before and convince himself that it was actually his, never mind convince his brain to pick those memories to dream of, rather than night after night of Alastair’s face looming over him with a red covered smile and a sharp knife.

This time, however, Dean knew Alastair had not been the main character of his latest nightly terror.

From the way he could still feel the skin on his hands crawling and taste blood on his mouth, Dean was sure he’d been dreaming about a particular part of his stay in Hell, the part where he had been other souls’ nightmare. When he’d become Alastair’s prize student.

Dean couldn’t remember them all. He knew because he had tried; he’d stayed awake long hours in the dead of the night trying to recall the faces of every soul he had carved because he’d been too coward to go back to the rack.

Dean felt like he owed it them to remember what they had looked like, what they had been before he turned them into something else. Something other than human.

The rune had been one last remnant of disobedience. Two parallel lines with an X at the top, like a big M with a bow-tie. The ancient rune for Man. One last pitiful effort to make himself remember what he was; to set those broken souls free with a mark of what they had once been, so no one could ever forget.

Alastair had seen it the first time Dean had carved the symbol in the flesh of the soul he was torturing at the time. He had smirked, patted Dean’s shoulder and moved along. His touch had burned as much as the smile of approval.

Dean never knew if Alastair knew what he was doing or if he even cared.

It had to be more than mere coincidence for that same rune to be popping up at every turn they took in that frigging island. And for once, Dean knew he wasn’t imagining it. Sam had seen it too, even if he had no inkling of its true meaning.

“Maybe you’re the one doing it.”

Dean looked around so quickly that his neck cracked. Stumbling back, he stared, eyes wide.

Michael was casually leaning against a tree, chewing an apple. “Hello Dean,” he offered casually, mouth full of fruit, juices running down one side of his mouth before he wiped them with his free hand and licked them clean.

“You...” Dean shook his head. The vision was so real he could smell the sweetness of the apple. It made his mouth water and his stomach growl, a sharp reminder of just how long it had been since he’d eaten. “You’re not real.”

Michael took another bite, tossed the partially uneaten apple to the floor, the fruit rolling until it came to a stop near Dean. “Course I’m not,” he agreed. “But that only adds to my point, doesn’t it?” He smirked and looked down; in the middle of his chest, a dark patch of blood started forming. It grew and expanded, with life of its own until the pattern started to become familiar to Dean.

The rune.

His rune.

“No... no... no... no,” Dean whispered to himself. Not Michael. He couldn’t bear to imagine Michael’s soul in that place, under his knife.

His head was pounding. Dean pressed his hands to the sides of his skull, feeling like his brain was about to leak out through his ears. There were screams in the forest and above it all, Michael was laughing, his chest a bloody mess.

“Hey, you found an apple tree?”

Sam’s voice cut through the screams and Dean blinked his eyes open. Sam was finishing off the apple that not-there-Michael had dropped.

INTERLUDE VII

-SAM-

The soft sound of metal sliding over wood, as Sam worked the tip of a branch into a sharp end with Ruby’s knife, was interrupted by a loud growl. “We need to find something to eat,” he voiced over the sound of his stomach complaining once again about the lack of food in between its walls. “Bobby won't be here for another two days, one at best...” ‘ _and there’s nothing we can do until he gets here’_ , he left unsaid.

The lack of the original bodies inside those graves and the state of panic that every single ghost on that island seemed to be in was sure enough sign that they were dealing with something a little more complicated than vengeful spirits. 

Zombies were still Sam’s best bet, despite the fact neither he or Dean had laid eyes on one since their arrival at the island. It would stand to reason that fresh, live humans would attract the undead, but if that was the case, the zombies seemed content to stay in hiding.

Still, they had left the graves uncovered and Sam was finishing the second stake of the four they needed. One per zombie that they needed to stake to his grave.

Sam’s gut, however, was telling him that there was something more going on than zombies attacking a group of teens. 

For one, and according to Michael, those kids had been lured to the island by a mysterious man. From the amount of blood they’d found at the ritual site and the lost cell phone that they’d discovered amidst the gore, Sam could guess that they’d been lured with the single purpose of being used in whatever ritual had been performed there. The phone, in itself, made little sense.

The presence of Michael’s face in the picture told them that it had belonged to one of his friends, most liked the young woman in the picture with him, but if that was the case... how did a cell battery last for more than a month in such harsh environment?

And then, there were the missing bodies of the Bowe brothers and the bloody ritual. They had been assuming that the two things were connected, but might have not been the case at all. Given the type of experiments that had been done to them and the type of people that had been running the place at the time, it was possible that the brothers were never even buried in the first place. 

Which meant that zombies or no zombies, they needed to figure out whoever had performed that ritual.

The ritual in itself was giving Sam headaches. There was no way for him to even venture a guess at to what purpose those young people had been sacrificed. 

Bobby was the real expert in that area. He could look at the place, see whatever had been left behind and tell them what the hell had happened there.

But until Bobby arrived, they had no better theory than shy zombies. And empty stomachs. “Where did you find that apple?” Sam asked, his stomach rumbling once again at the prospect of food. “Maybe there’s some more fruit trees or bushes around here?”

For some reason, Dean’s face lost its color at Sam’s question. Dean had been acting strange ever since they had arrived on that island.

At first, Sam had blamed it on the near drowning and the lump on his head. After that, he’d just stacked it all together in the big pile of weird that had been Dean’s emotions and reactions to everyday life after his return from Hell.

Now... now Sam wondered if there wasn’t something on that island that was actually adversely influencing his brother. “You feeling okay?” he asked, for what felt like the hundredth time. And like all ninety-nine other times, Dean waved him off.

“’m fine,” Dean said, getting to his feet. “Just hungry, like you. I’ll go see if I can find that apple tree again.”

“Want me to go with?” Sam offered. Dean seemed shaky and off kilter. Last thing Sam wanted was for him to get lost or fall down in the middle of nowhere. The forest wasn’t all that dense or big, but it was getting late and the sun would set soon.

Dean shook his head. “Need to hit the head, anyway. You just... keep on carving that stick.”

As he watched his brother all but run into the cover of the tree line, Sam dropped Ruby’s knife on the ground and set  down the unfinished stake. 

Acting weird or not, Dean wasn’t himself and there was no way that Sam was going to let him wonder off alone. Whatever was going on with him, he didn't need to do this on his own.

With a tired sigh, Sam wished not for the first time, that they had just ignored Michael’s request and not come to this place.

He got up and started to follow his errand brother. If nothing else, he would get some apples out of this.

-DEAN-

Dean felt like the air was closing in on him. He’d been watching Sam’s rhythmic motions, shiny blade gliding over dark wood, curly chips rolling to the ground as the tip of the branch grew sharper and sharper.

It was almost smoothing.

And then Sam had mentioned the damn apple.

Dean had been trying his best to forget about that. The clear and undeniable evidence that he was losing his mind.

Because the apple had been real. And Dean’s eyes had guaranteed him that it had been Michael eating it.

Only, Michael was miles away, safely in his apartment, waiting for he and Sam to tell him that his friends had not died for nothing. There was no possible way that he could have been there, on the island, casually eating an apple and taunting Dean about things that Michael had no way of knowing.

Which meant Dean had imagined him. Which meant that not-Michael had been right: Dean was doing all of that. He had carved those animals, he had eaten the apple.

He was going truly insane.

Suddenly, it was impossible for him to be near Sam. If Dean could no longer tell what was real from what his sick mind was inventing, he was a danger. And the only real person he could hurt on that damn abandoned island filled with ghosts, was his brother.

Looking for that motherfucking apple tree had been the easy way out. “I’ll be right back.”

And he intended to be. There was no way off the place until Bobby arrived to get them and if Dean ran, he was sure that Sam would come after him.

He wasn’t going to run. Dean just need a little space to breathe. Get his bearings back. 

Night was falling, dark cloak of chill and stars that seemed to transform the whole place into something else. Something other worldly, something filled with malice and a mind of its own.

Dean wondered where he had found the animals to carve. The island seemed to be mostly uninhabited aside from a few rats and the damn bugs.

As long as he was out there, he might as well find them something big enough to eat. Sam was right about that. They couldn’t wait for Bobby. “Bobby can’t fix everything,” Dean reminded himself. “He can’t fix this.”

Maybe hunger was making whatever the hell was happening to him worse. He’d heard of people hallucinating lakes and entire oceans of water when they were thirsty. Or maybe that only worked in the desert.

Maybe hunger was making him... lose it. “You’re not in the desert, you idiot,” he let out, kicking a pile of dead leaves as if to prove his point.

Dean swat at an itch on his arm, cursing whatever mosquito was trying to suck him dry.

It was getting too dark to see his way around and Dean wondered how long he’d been out there. How long would it be until Sam came looking for him.

The itch moved from his shoulder to his forearm and Dean scratched, absentmindedly. His foot slipped on the dew covered dead foliage on the ground.

That was when he saw it. White fog, curling around on the ground, like a big white snake, moving towards him.

Dean looked around in despair, searching for someone who could tell him if what he was seeing was real or not. He took a step back, feet skating on the forest floor like everything was covered in ice.

As it drew closer, Dean could see that the snake-like motion was more than just an illusion. He could see fangs, black nostrils above, sniffing for him.

What if this was the thing that had attacked those kids? What if this was real and he was about to die?

The idea of facing something that might not entirely be in his head gave Dean some measurement of hope. His fingers patted the ground around him in a frantic motion, until his fingers curled around the edge of a tree branch. A thick one.

The thing moved closer, a foul smell of sulphur and copper increasing at its every move.

Dean was ready.

When the snake reared its head to attack, Dean moved first and hit it with his branch. He felt it connect with something solid, despite the fog that seemed to cover the creature. It stopped moving.

Not waiting to see if he had killed, Dean bolted. He needed to get back to Sam and make sure he was okay.

~o~

Sam wasn’t at camp.

Dean’s heart was hammering against his chest even before his eyes had fully registered that fact.

There was a giant, fog-like snake in the woods and Sam wasn’t where he was supposed to be.

Dean could feel the sweat sliding down his back, cold and tacky, uncomfortable. Ruby’s knife was still there, abandoned by the pit where they had built their fire for the night. The dry, thin sticks and leaves were still unlit. “SAM?”

No answer but the constant hum of cicadas. Dean turn around, looking at every possible angle, cajoling the trees to tell him in which direction Sam had gone.

His hand scratched at the constant itch that had only slightly abated when he had fought the snake. Annoyed at the constant distracting, Dean looked down to see what was causing it. His mouth fell opened at the same time his stomach rebelled at what he was seeing.

There was a bug the size of his hand, latched to his forearm. It had wings like a fly, but the front was more like a cricket’s. And it was bright red.

As Dean watched, the creature sunk its teeth into his skin once more, going deeper and deeper until its all head was inside. Dean’s fingers groped at the insect’s body, clumsy and numb under the frenetic motion of panic.

In horror, Dean saw as he pulled too hard and the body of the creature detached itself from the head, instead of pulling it out like he intended.

He tossed it on the ground, stepping on the large body with a squishing sound. Yellow goo that smelled like sewer covered his boots.

The head was still inside, an impossibly small puncture wound trickling blood from where it had entered. Dean could feel it move, circle around his arm, slowly moving towards his wrist.

He looked around in despair. There was no fire to burn it out.

Dean’s eyes fell on Ruby’s knife with a feeling that could almost be called relief.

-SAM-

Sam came to slowly. His head was throbbing painfully at each beat of his heart, and his heart –bastard that it was- had picked that exact moment to beat faster than ever.

Dean had attacked him.

Sam had been keeping to the shadows, watching as his brother moved around in circles, talking to himself. It was clear that he wasn’t looking for any apple tree.

The motions and behavior were so un-Dean like that, for a moment there, Sam was sure that his brother had been possessed by one of the spirits again. But then he had taken a deep breath, started humming some music that, even though only every other note had reached Sam’s ears, he knew to be Metallica and Sam knew that this was much more serious than a simple possession. And yes, he was perfectly aware of how wrong that sounded.

But this... this was Dean losing it. It wasn’t something that Sam could make go away with an exorcism, or a spell or even a six-pack of beer.

Seeing Dean slip and almost hit the ground had been Sam’s last straw. He moved closer, hard set on grabbing his brother and not letting him out of his sight until Bobby got there and they could try and fix this.

Sam had never expected Dean to react the way he did. He hadn’t even considered the possibility that Dean might have been so far gone that he would actually attack him.

The fear he saw in his brother’s eyes...

Sam had felt something twitch inside of him, something he had been keeping well guarded and away from his mind. He felt pity for his brother.

Sam had tried to reach Dean. He never saw the branch Dean used to club him.

And now Dean was gone and Sam had no idea where he was.

Getting up was a Herculean task that left Sam sweating and dizzy. He felt a fresh trickle of blood, traveling over the congealed trail he could feel sticking to the side of his face, pulling at his skin.

He took the first unsteady step towards where he’d come. Sam knew he would never find Dean in the dark and he needed to get back to their supplies, meager as they were. He needed to find a way to help Dean.

-DEAN-

The pain barely registered in Dean’s panicked mind. The red barely registered as his own blood as it poured from the jagged cuts in his left wrist. 

The damn mutant bug was still eluding his knife and Dean cursed into the cold air. “Stay still, you motherfucker!”

His fingers were getting numb and the bone handle of the knife had grown slippery. Something moved under the skin in his right arm and Dean screeched. “How did...?”

God! They were all over the place, eating him alive from the inside out. Switching hands, Dean cut into his right wrist, the cut shallow and short, fingers refusing to cooperate with his despair.

Dean vision started to grow fuzzy around the edges. His heart was pounding so loud inside his ears that he barely hear the call at first.

“Dean? What t’hell... DEAN!”

Dean looked around, recognizing his brother’s voice. He wanted to see with his own eyes that Sam was safe, he wanted to warn him about the bugs, but his tongue had seemed to have lost consistency. It was nothing but a dry piece of sponge inside his mouth.

He saw the two men then. They were impossible to miss and Dean had no idea why he hadn’t noticed them before. They had a faint green glow around them, separating them from the dark woods.

Something about the way they were dressed made Dean think about old mob movies. Mind distracted from the bugs, Dean took one step in their direction.

They looked angry and, even though he could see their mouth moving, there was no sound coming out. Maybe they had sponge tongues too.

Dean watched them turn in the direction of Sam’s voice like it was all a well-rehearsed play. He knew exactly what they were going to do next, even though he had no idea why they would want Sam dead.

And Dean knew exactly what he had to do. He stared at his bloody hands, willing his fingers to cooperate. In his peripheral vision, he could see Sam running towards him. He was still too far away, the angle all wrong for him to see those men until it was too late.

The green-glowing men were just a few steps away. Dean stumbled his way through with the grace of a drunken elephant.

Sound reset like someone had flipped a switch.

“You idiot!” One of the men slapped at the other. “I told ya to keep at it with this one and I’d take care of the other!”

The one who’d been slapped looked over his green companion’s shoulder at Dean. “I thought you’d said the other ways around.”

For a moment there, Dean was sure that the two men believed that Dean couldn’t see them or hear them. That, or they were sure that he posed no threat to them.

When he sunk Ruby’s knife on the heart of the one closest to him, Dean hadn’t expected to find solid matter under the tip of the blade; he hadn’t expected to feel hot blood washing over his hand to cover his.

And, he supposed, the green-glow man certainly hadn’t expected for his life to end like that.

“Nooo!” the other green-glowing man shouted. 

The sound of his voice brought Dean around to see the man change direction. He was now running full speed away from Sam and toward him. Aware of their presence now, and before the second green guy could get more than a few steps, Sam was on him.

Then he wasn't.

With little more than a glance, Green Guy sent Sam sailing through the air. He flew several feet and when he landed, the sound of air rushing from his lungs filled the forest. Momentarily forgetting about Dean, Green Guy stood over Sam, a foot raised with the clear intent of finishing him off.

**“** Sam!” 

Sam was too far away and Dean knew he’d never make it in time. He glanced at his wrists. Flesh cut neatly across veins, blood trickling out with each beat of his heart. Still, he had to try. Fear for Sam’s life wouldn’t allow him not to.

It wasn’t exactly running. Weakness assailed his limbs— he moved in what felt like slow motion. Coming to terms with his inability to make it in time, he flipped the knife in his palm and prepared to throw. Willing his hands to work, hoping his aim would fly true—

Green Guy snarled something, Dean was too far away to hear, and the boot came down toward Sam’s face.

Knife raised, Dean’s feet went suddenly out from under him.

At first Dean thought it was the blood loss; some odd sense of weightlessness due to weakness. Or that it was all in his head. The ground falling away from his feet couldn’t possibly be happening.  Then it got worse.

Things started cart-wheeling. The world tipped, tilted and spun, top over bottom time after time. His stomach wanted to rebel but gravity’s constant reorientation made it hard pressed to figure out how and where. He thought he might have to—

His back and head collided with something solid and every thing stopped, even the rush of air in his lungs.

Dazed from the impact, sparks ignited behind his eyes. Nausea grew, warring with the fight to stay conscious until Dean lost all sense of what was happening for a couple of seconds. He had no idea how long it took before he managed to force his eyes open; things slid every direction and images blurred before sliding into place. When they did, he realized two things with sickening clarity…

First, only one type of being had the power to toss a man like that —he looked down— and keep him suspended several inches above the ground without ever touch him.

And two, not ten feet away, Michael stood near the green guy Dean had knifed. Feet braced, shoulders tense, he looked decidedly un-Michael-like and he was staring daggers at him. Everything about his posture sent alarms ringing. 

Oh, and he had the knife gripped in his right hand, tight with intent. 

Awesome.

“M-Michael?” Dean stammered. 

Michael looked down at the dead man. “This was my brother you killed,” he glanced up at Dean, “you bastard!” he yelled, voice full of rage. 

This was definitely not Michael. Well, it _was_ but at the same time, not. This was a much angrier, scarier version of Michael. And worse, he stood over the body of something evil, defending its right to exist, hands balled into fists, threatening and—

_Brother._ “Sam...” Dean whispered frantically and darted his eyes over.

“I’m alright!” Sam called back but paid quickly for his reply. A swift kick to his side sent him curling in on himself. Green Guy smirked down at him and drew his foot back to deliver another.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean shouted and tried in vain to pull free. But the power did not wane.

The green guy nodded at Dean. “Let'm go, Marty,” he seethed and notched his chin higher, nose flaring. “I wanna crack at 'im.”

Not-Michael spun on the other man. “You had but one job to do,” he shouted, “One job! And now Jack's gone!” He pointed in warning. “Just… stay put and keep an eye on that one. And Jack, I need him alive, and preferably without damaged internals, aye?”

Jack looked petulantly at his brother. “Aye,” he finally answered. Obviously disappointed, he lowered his leg but stayed close to the younger Winchester, keeping him in check.

Marty. The name clicked in Dean’s head, pages of an old file mixing with half-bitten words from a silent ghost. Martin Bowe.

“Don’t get too comfy there, Winchester,” Martin walked around his dead brother and came to stand in front of Dean. “Your brother over there isn’t out of the woods yet.” He looked around him a second. “Literally.”

“You know who I am?” Dean growled. This was getting worse by the minute.

“Oh, yes,” Martin moved around the corpse of his brother. “I know _exactly_ who you are. Don’t think I could ever forget you, after all, I bear your mark.” Martin pulled up the bottom of his sweater, revealing flesh and the outline of bone and-- “Things gettin’ clearer for you now?”

Dean’s eyes widened. Overwhelmed, he slammed his eyes shut and looked away.

It was his mark. Always in the same spot, just below the sternum. The mark he’d personally carved into all the souls given him under Alastair’s tutelage. The signature he’d perfected on those he’d sacrificed for his own cowardice. Those who’d paid for his weakness. The shameful reminder of how he’d broken in Hell, choosing to avoid further pain and willingly dammed others to endure more of the same. At his own hand.

“Memory’s a bitch, ain’t it?” Martin hissed. “Open your eyes, Dean.”

At a loss for words, Dean merely ignored him. The tree bark scraped up his back as he felt himself moving down. “No,” he shook his head, “no, please.” Something grabbed his chin, felt his head tugged front and center.

“Open’m or I’ll let Jack start cuttin’ into yer brother. Jack here prefers guns, but knives... well, he’s no _you_ , but he’s still really good enough with’m.”

“No!” Dean’s eyes flew open. The truth of what he was dealing with stared back at him, black eyes washing out any semblance of color. He met the demon's eyes with glib acceptance.

“Ah, yer not surprised, I see,” Martin teased. 

“You're Martin Bowe,” Dean growled. 

“Bravo,” he grinned. “And this,” he looked at the dead body, “is– was my–” his voice faltered a bit as his gaze lingered on the fallen body. “My brother, Jim.” Martin looked at Dean once more. “You killed him...” 

“Fine,” Dean shook his head vehemently, he had to stop this. “This was my fault. I killed your brother. I made you into this. It was me. So kill me, but let him go,” he nodded toward Sam. “This wasn’t his fault, just mine. I did th– that to you. Let him go. Please.” 

Martin shook his head. “Really?” he looked down in mocked disappointment. “Begging, Dean? Tsk, tsk, tsk... how the mighty have fallen, eh?” He ran one hand down the side of Dean’s neck. “Sorry, no can do.” He strode lightly away, back turned to Dean.

“Why the hell not!?” Dean all but shouted, desperation filling his heart, constricting his chest. Suddenly it all made sense. The ritual site, the bodies, the way that green-tainted man had felt flesh and blood beneath Dean’s blade even though he had died over a century ago... “The sacrifices,” the last part clicked. “You were using those kids to resurrect your brothers.”

But if Martin was already done, why the hell the cat and mouse chase with him and Sam around the island? Why not just kill them? All those ghosts… their focus… “You need me for something, don’t you? The spell, it… it needs something more.”

 “Ah, but it’s not always about you Dean.” he thought a moment. “Well, it is, but it’s about yer brother too. He’s got an important role to play in this.”

Six kids… four Bowe brothers. Dean wasn’t really sure how that math worked. Dean shook his head in confusion. “What? Why?”

“Well, for one, he’s your brother – an eye fer an eye, an all that.” He looked back to where Jack kept watch over Sam. “And another,” he shrugged, “I’m tired o’waitin’. I want to look in the mirror and see me again.”

Six weren’t enough… Martin needed more, Dean suddenly figured. Him, Sam and Michael.

Not if he could help it. 

“Plenty of bodies in the world,” Dean commented, his voice masking worry for the demon’s current host. He could only hope Michael was okay in there. “How about a donkey? I think you’d look great in gray.” Dean gasped, feeling the air in his lungs leave in a single rush of air. Suddenly he couldn’t breathe.

“Mind yer manners, Dean or I lose my temper and I finish bleedin’ you now, rather than later.” 

Just like that, the pressure lifted and Dean gulped in air. Gasping, still stuck to the tree. Panting as if he’d run five miles. “Why,” he whispered, “why wait?”

Martin seemed to smile, a truly happy smile. “Ah, the brilliance of my plan, you see. I’m going to possess your body, give you a front row seat to the final two sacrifices. More than that, let you see through your own eyes as you plunge the knife into your own brother’s heart. Then into Michael’s.”

“You mean–” Dean struggled to breath and talk. “You mean Michael’s still alive?”

“Oh yes, alive and screaming. I have to smack him around a bit every now and then to get him to calm down, but he’s in here,” he tapped on his head. “Even now, not too happy.”

“So you used Michael to lure me here? That it?” Dean asked.

Martin sighed. “May surprise you t’know that in the beginning, this weren’t about you. I didn’t even know you were topside.” He moved away, staring off at his brother Jack. “This was about bringing us all back, give us our bodies and make them stronger, more powerful. Make it so no one would ever touch us again.” His eyes closed, a shadow of pain passing over his features. “Didn’t know ‘til Will just... dissolved.”

Dean huffed. “Lemme guess, you didn’t read the fine print.”

“Didn’t get the chance.” he turned and stared blankly at Dean. “Alastair’s men came and took me away to meet his latest, greatest new apprentice.”

Dean swallowed. Images flashed inside his mind. Knives. Entrails. Screaming. Blood. Souls, begging for mercy. Cutting. Slashing. Darkness.

Dean blinked, forcing the memories back. “Wow,” he deadpanned, “so, now you’re down two brothers. Good for our side.”

“Oh, that’s rich.” Martin spun, his face clouded with disgust. “After Will died, I wanted to make sure that never happen’ again, so I went lookin’ fer answers. Blood of an angel, I was told, or of someone touched by one. And who do I know that was personally plucked from Hell by those bastards?” Martin asked the empty air. “None other than Alastair’s prize pupil, golden boy!” he huffed in disdain.

Dean swallowed. He desperately wanted to change the subject. He knew the whole ‘touched by an angel’ crap would come to bite him in the ass eventually. “How long have you been in him?”

“Not long. Bloody fool came here looking for his friends when the police blew him off.” He looked down at his hands, the hands of a stranger. 

“So you possessed him instead? Why?”

“Ye’know…” Martin wagged a finger at him. “Since ye'r on yer way to the void an' all, I’m gonna educate you a bit. So's ya don’t die stupid,” he said with a toothy smile. “Dealing with the unnatural, it leaves a mark on you. The more powerful the being, the deeper the brand. Yer pal here… he was just a shinny beacon in the dark, all marred by that filthy Shtriga a few years back. Ya know, all those years down the-”

Whatever Martin was about to say, was cut off as his brother’s shout of panic caught his attention.

Three ghosts were darting in, out and around him and he swatted at them, anxiously. “Get'm off me!” he bellowed, swinging at the empty air.

“What the hell...” Martin muttered. “Quit playin’ around with those things!” he shouted.

“Not--” Jack danced away from one, only to have the other pass through him. “Not playin! Somethin’s wrong. I can’t make’m st—stop! An- and they hurt!” 

Dean squinted. For a moment he thought he was seeing things. But the more Jack jumped around, the more he could see them. Small but powerful bursts of energy. 

They flared bright and hot seconds before shooting through Jack, surrounding him, darting through him. One, then the other, then one more. After passing through him, they seemed to fan out, regroup and darting through him again. It was like … multiple spirit energies working as one.

The ghosts were combining their energies!

“Dammit,” Martin growled and just as he lifted his hand to try and put a stop to them, a small cluster of pure energy attacked him from behind. It surprised Dean as much as it had Martin. More than that, after that group passed, another flared and followed. Dean had to close his eyes to keep the bright light from blinding him.

When he opened them, Martin wasn’t nearly as close as he’d been before. Covered in mud, leaves, pine needles and various sticks, he was several feet away; obviously carried and dropped. Dean would’ve laughed but the familiar sight of the ghost from the unmarked grave site took all the joy of the moment.  While the others tormented the Bowes, she stood close, too close. Staring up at him.

Pinned to the tree like a helpless insect, all he could do was stare back. “Why don't you go join your friends, huh?” he attempted to deflect. “They’re having fun!”

It was valid try, but a cold fist twisted inside his gut as Dean saw another ghost appeared next to her and also staring at him. Dean swallowed. This newest ghost, wasn’t big; he was enormous. Maybe bigger than Sam.

Dean’s eyes darted from one to the other, the sense of dread turning to true concern. “Ah c’mon... seriously?” he whined and who could blame him? Already having had two encounters with the woman and both leaving him less than stable, he wasn’t exactly looking forward to a third.

While the other spirits tormented the Bowes, Dean watched as the right side of the woman’s face creepily inched up into some kind of macabre attempt at a smile. She opened her mouth and tipped her head back. The tree to which Dean was pinned began to shake mightily. Every bush and tree around him started swaying violently.

“Oh shit...” Dean mumbled and squinted as the world around him started to swirl. The sound was practically deafening; he likened it to being trapped in a hurricane.  

The male ghost looked at the woman and vaulted sideways, their spirits combining, a bright light sparking. Despite wanting to see what happened next, Dean was forced to close his eyes. Besides, he had a pretty good guess about what would happened next. “You realize this is non-consensual, right?” he shouted.

The light charged forward and Dean’s back arched off the tree trunk. He probably screamed but couldn’t be sure; the world went too black for sound.

~o~

Dean woke slowly and a few things became abundantly clear in his otherwise fuzzy mind. One, he was face down on the wet, soggy ground, his head pounded while his stomach roiled incessantly. Second, he had no idea how he’d gotten there, and worse, where he’d come from. 

Instinct told him to get moving but for the life of him he couldn’t think why it mattered, or how he was going to manage it. His muscles shook uncontrollably and it was a struggle just to open his eyes.

Whispers rode a sudden cold breeze. The hair on the back of his neck rose as the chilled wind skittered across his flesh.

_“Go.. go.. go..”_ A stronger gust flushed across his body and the whispers grew intense.  _“Now!”_

Dean finally managed to open his eyes. Though she was little more than a faded image now, the woman from the unmarked graves stood a few feet away, her energy flickering in and out, clearly lacking strength and form. Her face looked haggard and worn. 

Memory came rushing back; Michael. A tree biting into his back. Green glowing Jack, and... No. Not Michael; Martin. And...

“Sam!” Dean growled. He had to find Sam. Bracing trembling hands on the ground, he pushed himself up. 

“C’mon, Dean,” Martin’s voice echoed around him, bouncing off the surrounding trees. Too close. “You can’t get away from me. Show yourself and I might go easy...”

“Shit,” Dean hissed and scrambled to his feet. Well, that was the intent, instead he landed on his belly again, this time the latter chose that moment to roll angrily and the world shivered out of focus. He blinked several times to get it back in clear view.

There was a large copse of dense brush five yards to his left and this time, Dean didn’t risk trying to conquer gravity. This time, he settled for crawling, watching his hands as if he saw them from a distance. Shaking and moving in slow motion, measured movements to keep from collapsing again.

One ghost riding his ass had been bad enough, but two...? This case sucked balls.

-SAM-

“Ye bloody bastard!” Jack shouted and drew to a stop and spun in a circle. Sam noticed how the odd green glow that surrounded him seemed to get darker as he got angrier. “I’ll tear yer balls from yer worthless hide!”

Sam hunkered down, ducking a little deeper into the shadows. From the large outcropping of moss-covered rocks, he silently willed Jack to move on. A plea Jack did not seem all that willing to heed.

It almost hadn't worked. So well camouflaged against the forest, he'd almost missed the little cave of rocks in his haste to keep his dwindling lead. Had narrowly gotten to cover as the other Bowe entered the tiny alcove. Now Jack stood only ten feet away, content to linger, glowering at his surroundings. When he spun and marched straight at his position, Sam held his breath and waited.

Sam’s mind was a whirl of confusion and questions as to what had just happened. But mostly, it was worry. Still sorting through the events of the last few minutes, his mind tracked back, trying to make sense of it.

In that clearing, with Dean pressed against that tree, and Martin, in Michael’s body, exhibiting his unhealthy interest in him, when those strange glowing energies had attacked, things had rapidly deteriorated. Sam had scooted back from his captor, not sure at that moment just how far this would go. Just their electrically charged presence had made the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand up on end but they seemed uninterested in him. He’d have laughed if he hadn’t been so concerned for Dean, and then when Martin had gone flying, things got really weird.

While Jack and Martin were too busy dealing with them, Sam had seen his chance; get to Dean and get the Hell out of there. But that had proved impossible; the angle of the battle between the Bowes and the entities had blocked the only exit route and before he’d had a chance to find another way out something flashed hard and bright forcing him to shield his eyes. 

There was a loud noise, a god-awful scream, both seemingly going on for several minutes. Then, finally, the glare had cleared, Sam had opened his eyes and felt his heart drop; Dean was gone. Memory of that scream still sent chills down his spin.

With Jack and Martin starting to show signs of returning consciousness, Sam had run. In the opposite direction. They’d always said that in any situation, if they ever got separated, that they’d try to get back to the most defensible position. Retreat and regroup. 

In this case, the one place that still had most of its walls. The main building the hospital. 

So, with few other options, he ran.

Sam had just decided it was safe to backtrack to the hospital when Jack’s voice echoed across the forest. The guy was fast, and Sam had barely made it to cover when the—whatever it was—trotted into sight. The guy sucked at tracking, that was a plus, but the fact that Martin wasn’t with him, was far more worrisome. Obviously, the Bowes had split up and the demon had gone looking for Dean. 

Rather than lead this one back to the Hospital, Sam decided to get rid of Jack first, then go back and find Dean.

Exactly how he was going to accomplish that, however, he had no idea. 

The why of it all was also perplexing. He’d not been close enough to hear Dean and Martin talk so he’d no clue what their protracted conversation had been about. What had he shown Dean when he’d lifted his shirt? Martin was possessing Michael, so what could have possibly been there that had...

Sam shook his head. He needed to keep his thoughts in the here and now. First things first.

And right now, that first thing was Jack, who was... “Shit,” he whispered, angry with himself for being distracted. Jack was walking right toward him and he sank back farther until his back hit something solid. Rock. 

“You know, if I were lookin’ fer me a good place t’hide, I’d think this might be a good’n.” Jack squinted his eyes and leaned into the shadows. “Ya in there, boy’o? Come out, come out where’ever ye are.”

Sam dropped to the ground and rolled out from under the opening he’d crawled through earlier. Just in time as Jack’s head poked in to peer in the opening at the top. Sam was off and running, hearing Jack’s voice shout angrily behind him.

“Ye ain’t doin’ yer self no favors, lad. When I get my hands on ye , you’ll be wishin’ you were dead.” 

The sound of water went unnoticed. Sam had to stay ahead of Jack and– he burst out of the dense underbrush, tripped on a vine and went rolling down hard packed sand and rock. 

Sam turned and took in his surroundings- the river’s edge, an old dilapidated dock, all but rotted away, and on the shore, half in the water, half out, a rusted overturned old skiff sat rocking against the incoming tide, waiting for the next big wave to carry it out into the cove.

“You know...” Jack’s voice called through the woods. “I’m gettin’ almighty tired o’ this, boy’o.” Closer, his voice was drawing nearer to the clearing. “My brother said I had to bring you back alive, but he didn’t say _how_ alive...”

On impulse, Sam scrambled up and into the frizzing water. Shivering, he grabbed the edge of the skiff and lifted it up enough to fold his body beneath it. Sam gripped the edges with just the tips of his fingers, muscles in his shoulders and arms loaded and ready to spring. 

Rock and sand crunched not far away. Water lapped at his legs, cold, seeping through his jeans and shirt. Sam waited patiently. Listening.

“Yer just putting off the inevitable,” Jack continued. His too loud voice a sure sign he had no idea where Sam was. “And you can’t win. Those annoying ghosts, they can’t help no more. Shot their load back there, won’t be no use to you or your brother.”

Ghosts. So that’s what they were...

“And your brother, I’m sure Marty’s found him already.” 

Jack’s footsteps seemed to be pacing away from him and Sam quietly lifted the edge of the boat. It was just enough to peek out, to see what he was doing. Almost immediately, Jack turned on one heel and moved back toward him. Sam breathed an inward sigh of relief that he'd not been spotted. 

An idea came to him – a reckless, unfounded idea, but it was all he had. Timing, however, had to be perfect. 

“Aye, your brother, he might’ve got away from Mart for a bit, but his wrists are sliced up pretty good. Made sure of that. Only a matter of time now. And Mart don’t need more’n a few cups of his blood to unlock the binding spell. Him cuttin’ his own wrists was the main part.”

As much as he wanted to believe he was only trying to bait him, Sam knew much of that was true. Were they trying to do some other spell? Was this part of the first one? Sam couldn’t remember if the other bodies had their wrists cut, but then again, it was hard to tell amidst the amount of loose bits that they’d encountered. The fact that they’d been after Dean’s blood specifically raised all the hairs in Sam’s neck. 

It was now or never. Especially since Jack’s feet came to stop just next to the skiff, heels turned toward the rusted skiff.

“I’m sure Mart’s–” 

Sam surged to his feet. The dingy went back and he launched at an angle, grabbing Jack about the knees. Both men crashed into the water where Sam did the only thing he could think of: push Jack further away from land, out where he couldn't touch. Salt water, maybe. Or drowning, one of them had to work. He hoped.

“Stop..!” Jack sputtered, arms flailing as he tried to get his head above the waves. “Not— don’t..” 

Green smoke seemed to rise off the surface, just where he had Jack submerged. The water around him started to fizz, bubbles rising, boiling to the surface, but the water temperature remained cold. His hand still on Jack’s head to hold him down, he felt the texture change beneath his fingers. No longer solid and human-like, it grew soft. Sam pulled his hand back, kicked to move away, and watched. 

Larger bubbles surfaced and Jack thrust up out of the water, arms batting about, swatting at the air. At nothing. 

“I’m … Noooooo!!!!” The air around him pulled in toward his body and the water went from bubbles to foam and froth. Sam kicked again, moving further back. 

Then Jack... faded. Slowly. The white foamy water seemingly rising up to embrace him. His body shimmering, dimmer and dimmer until his solid form turned to little more than dust and dropped to the water in a shower of mist and ash.

Breathing hard, eyes locked to the spot, Sam gave a small huff. “Okay, then.”

-DEAN-

Dean looked down at the floor. Blood dripped unabated, trailing behind him. His wrists had begun bleeding again. 

It had been a nightmare getting here. The post ghost possession sickness, this time it had been far worse. Three times he’d had to stop and throw up. After each time his body had been wracked with tremors so bad his muscles cramped to the point that all he’d been able to do was to curl in on himself, try to warm up and let the seized muscles take their time to release.

And even worse was not knowing how Sam was doing. Or how far ahead Martin was. All he knew was he had to keep moving, even if it meant moving away from Sam.

He’d entered round the back of the hospital. It had taken longer but it was necessary. The demon killing knife wasn’t an option. No way he’d kill Michael. The kid still had a chance and Dean intended to give it to him.

But if he collapsed from blood loss, it would all be for naught. Dean kept his arms tight into his sides, hoping the pressure would be enough to stem the flow. It helped a little. Still he felt it. The rapid breathing. Sweating. The feeling that his mind and the world are working at two different speeds. 

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Despite it all, that was the one word working on rerun inside Dean’s head. He had allowed that reborn Bowe-spook to take a hold of his mind and had make their job of killing him all the more easy by cutting his own wrists. He’d lost too much blood before their little tussle with Martin, now, the run through the forest... he had to get to that room.

Dean leaned against the door next to the stairwell. This was the one, he was almost certain. Almost. This place was so damn big. The door didn’t open easily but Dean used his considerable weight, just leaned and allowed gravity to take care of the rest until the thing gave in and he was able to stumbled through. 

The world spun around him and he backed until the wall collided with his spine and waited it out. A slow lone whistling... soft, growing louder and Dean’s eyes flew open.

“Jack tells he’s got your brother secured at the altar as we speak, Dean.” 

No. That had to be a lie. Dean moved his arms away and let more of his blood leak before locking them in at his sides. Then, keeping his shoulder to the wall for balance, he moved further inside the room.

“No point hiding, lad. You leave a pretty easy to follow trail what with that blood and all...”

Dean legs nearly gave way. Muscles trembled from exertion and fatigue. He glanced up before moving drunkenly, feet dragging, slow and stumbling across the room. When he reached the right spot he waited, looking for all the world like a trapped animal. Eyes barely open, lips pressed tight, breaths that sounded too loud even to his own ears.

Thankfully, he’d not had to wait long. Martin peered around the corner not a minute later. The demon twisted Michael’s face into something unkind as his black eyes locked with Dean. 

“Ah, there you are, yer blood trail didn’t lie.” He moved slowly, carefully. “Given any thought as to what you’ll do once you get back to Hell?”

“Only that I’m taking you with me if I go.”

Martin paused, just before taking the last step and stared at Dean a moment. “Yer confidence is over-blown, considering your present circumstances,” he said as he held his arms out to the side. “You’ve not a card to play here and I’m holding aces high.”

“God, enough with the poker metaphors already.” Dean felt trickles of sweat sting his eyes and he had to blink several times to clear them, nearly losing his balance in the process.

“You know, Dean,” Martin said descending the steps slowly. “You look,” he eyed Dean up and down, looking like he was searching for the best to describe what he saw. “Like barely warmed shit on a cold day.”

Dean nodded, no longer interested in this exchange. “Fi—fine, now w-what?” His body tipped to one side before he managed to right himself. “So this w-where you t-talk me t’death?” He cast a surreptitious glance down, feigning interest in the little pools of blood he continued to lose, his gaze drifting to Michael’s feet, the tips of his shoes...

_Not quite far enough..._

“Why,” Marty grinned. “You got somewhere to be?”

Much as he hated the idea, Dean realized he had to move this along and that meant time for the big guns. “So remind me again which of your brothers I killed? Will or Jim? Gotta say, I wasn’t sure my knife would do the trick, but it sure was satisfying to see the surprise on his fac--”

“Ye shut yer damn mouth!” Martin shouted as his hand shot out.

Dean felt his air cut off, invisible fingers clasping his throat and squeezing; he slammed against the wall. Through the struggle to breathe and the intense pressure forcing him against the wall Dean watched Martin’s movements through slitted eyes. One foot forward. _Good, good. C’mon, keep coming..._ Then the other foot, and one full step--

The pressure stopped. Dean dropped to the concrete floor, gasping, a hand coming up to massage the tender flesh at his throat. Opening his eyes, he looked at Martin; standing just shy of center of the room, the demon appeared confused, stunned.

On hands and knees, Dean didn’t bother trying to stand; his legs felt like jello and his stomach flopped unmercifully. He pushed back slowly to sit on his ass leaning against the wall. “Wa’s wrong, Marty?” Dean coughed, “Can’t get it up?” he asked, managing a weak smirk before resting his head back against the solid surface.

Martin lifted his hand several time, to no avail. Dean watched dispassionately, trying to pass off the numbness that was spreading through his body for lack of interest. “It’s a devil’s trap, dip shit,” he explained. “Not exactly new to this rodeo.”

“Dean!”

Sam’s shout came seconds before he appeared at the door of the room.

“‘Bout time you got here,” Dean groaned and braced his hands against the wall behind him. With a grunt he pushed and fought for balance, willing his legs to hold, to reach that vertical posture those cavemen had conquered so long ago. It was a losing battle, body insisting on folding on itself until Dean felt hands – Sam’s – steady him the rest of the way. Straightening, he gave an unspoken ‘thank you’ in the form of a nod.

“This ain’t over,” Martin hissed. 

“Uh, yeah, it is.” Dean looked at Sam. “Get him outta there.”

Sam looked down at the blood pooling around Dean's wrists. “Let me get something to stop that bleeding first–”

“Sam, Michael’s still alive in there,” Dean growled. “Get that demon asshole out of there before that changes!” 

Sam nodded, albeit reluctantly, and turned to face Michael. After making sure Dean wouldn’t topple, was more or less propped against the wall, he eyed Martin warily and moved a step away, obviously uncertain what effect the exorcism would have on their surroundings and began. Rote memory perfect, the Latin phrases flowed fluently, each word intensifying a vacuum of energy that sparked the air, charging it, driving the room into a flurry and lifting objects around them in a gust of chaos.

In the center of the devil’s trap, the effects took hold of Martin quickly. Michael's body shook; he jerked. The movements small at first and increasing as Sam continued. 

“I’ll—” Martin started before his body twisted in obvious pain. “G-give Alastair your regards, go-golden boy,” he finally managed.

Dean swallowed. “You can tell him, if I’m ever down there again, I’m coming after him.”

Martin’s mouth twisted into a most disconcerting, knowing smile. It lasted only a second before his head was thrown back and a roar of rage or pain or both, and black smoke shot out of his mouth. 

Squinting against the onslaught of energy and demon smoke, Dean shrank against the wall, Sam now next too him, still verbalizing the Latin phrases, over and over, driving Martin’s tainted soul out, assuring it left, back to Hell where it belonged.

Michael’s body rocked once more and dropped to the ground. Dean and Sam froze, staring. He rolled slowly to his side and lifted his head, gazing glassy eyed at the Winchesters. 

“That was,” he panted… his face flooded with emotion. “I saw— oh my God.”

Sam moved to his side and helped him stand. “You alright?”

“I…” Michael looked, seemingly taking some internal inventory before nodding. “I think so. At least physically, I guess.”

Sam exhaled, relief clear on his face, in his smile. “Thank God.” 

Dean would’ve done the same, but it was kind of hard to do when the floor was rising up to meet him. Then the world lost focus and faded to black. Somewhere in the distance he thought he saw, but probably only heard, Sam shout his name. After that, nothing. 

EPILOGUE

The air was chilly. At a distance, the lone man standing above the recent grave might’ve looked like a statue on his own, if not for the occasional wisps of white breath that escaped his mouth.

Michael had come to say goodbye to Karen Hobbs. A proper one, this time. Without anger, without a sense of vengeance cursing through his veins. Those had only gotten him possessed and almost killed.

She’d not been the love of his life, but they had definitely been close, more so than with any of the others. There could have been a future for the two of them; there _should’ve_ been a future for her. For all of them.

But not any more.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. Even after all that had happened, he wasn’t certain what he was sorry for. _I’m sorry I survived; I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you; I’m sorry there are evil things in this Earth and you found out about it in the worst possible way_. 

He slowly knelt on the damp ground. Karen had been a free spirit, bringing with her a touch of freshness wherever she went. Michael had loved that about her above all else. 

He placed the small bouquet of wildflowers to lean against the headstone. The chaos of cheery colors suited her. “I should have been there for you.” He choked back a sob. “I should have known.”

The sound of someone clearing their throat had Michael scrambling to his feet. Swiping stubborn tears away, he spun too quickly and nearly fell back. Dean stood leaning against a tree and Sam surged carefully toward him, grabbing his forearm and keeping him from landing on his ass.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” Sam said patting the air between them with his free hand. “You good?”

“I—” Michael nodded and slowly pulled his arm away. “I’m good. It’s alright.” He looked from Sam over to Dean, then back again. “Guess I’m still a bit jumpy.”

Sam offered an understanding smile. “After what you’ve been through, being possessed and…” he looked around them, “well, everything; a bit jumpy is to be expected. It gets better, trust me.”

Grateful for the understanding, Michael nodded and looked over at Dean. His face looked ashen, eyes hollowed. 

Three days before, Michael had seen Dean toying with the beginnings of a hypovolemic shock, only barely escaping death. Now, he still looked the part.

Those three days, like those leading up to his arrival to the island and subsequent discovery of the ritual site, were still too fresh in Michael’s mind. Every day had been a fight for life, for control, to beat back the frustration when he’d been unable to do more than watch, like some voyeuristic passenger with a front row seat into the macabre. 

When Sam had started the exorcism, Michael had felt each word like it was a living thing, hitting his flesh, stinging his soul until the demon was gone and he was left alone, skin on fire, like he’d been rubbed raw.

After that, to actually have been able to _do_ something, to stop being the passive part in his own story, had felt better than years of therapy. Unfortunately for Dean, what Michael had found himself doing was struggling to keep him alive.

Michael couldn’t remember everything that had happened after being possessed, but he did remember the speedboat that Martin had kept hidden to escape the island once he and his brothers had recovered their own human bodies. In the end, it was Martin’s boat that saved Dean’s life.

If they had been stuck in the island, waiting for the friend Sam assured Michael was on his way, their friend would’ve arrived in time for one more funeral.

The trip from the island to New York City, though short, had felt a day’s long. And yet, Michael could only recall flashes and glimpses of him and Sam, struggling to fashion bandages from their own clothing, using small pieces of wood to turn tight tourniquets around each of Dean’s arm, cleaning the bleeding wounds as best as they could in those guerrilla like conditions. And through it all the muffled moans of pain that Dean tried to hide from them without much success, the growing pallor of his skin, the stink of fear in the air as Michael and Sam sweated their worry of failure.

There’d been an argument (one of many) over whether or not to go to the nearest hospital, one that, and in the end, Michael had been forced to concur with the Winchesters. The sight of slashed wrists would create more questions than answers, more problems than solutions. 

There was a particularly thick book that Michael’d had to memorize for one of his medical emergency classes. In all of its sixty plus chapters, there hadn’t been a single one that talked about how to treat severe blood loss and deep lacerations with nothing but a couple of sewing needles, some dental floss, an over the counter Foley kit –Michael only wanted the catheter, really, but the sight if it was enough to make Dean lose two more shades of color- and a fortunately blood-compatible brother.

After that, Dean had been insistent that he’d spend the rest of his convalescence in a hotel room and while Sam seemed hesitant, he’d eventually agreed. Michael had argued otherwise, one more battle that he lost, but only because the Winchesters had allowed him to come with them. Just as long as he was allowed to camp out on a rollaway bed and keep a close eye on Dean’s recovery for any signs of infection, Michael could deal with tossing out the window all that he’d learned in med school about proper patient care.

Now, three days since they’d barely escaped with their lives and merely one since Michael had left their motel room, he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. It was too soon for Dean to be up and about. 

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” Michael asked rhetorically, shaking his head.

“See?” Dean looked knowingly at Sam then back at Michael. “That’s what I keep telling him.” His smile looked weak and exhausted but Michael found it also disarming and far healthier than just twenty-four hours earlier. “I am unbelievable.”

Sam looked back at his brother. “I don’t think he meant that in a good way, Dean.”

“Yeah well…” Dean pulled a small pouch from his pocket. “We had something for you, thought you might want it.”

“And,” Sam took the pouch from Dean and looked at Michael, “since we were about to leave town, didn’t find you at your apartment, we sorta thought you might have come here, so…”

Michael looked at the proffered object a second. “What is it?”

“We found the bodies of your friends, in the island and…” Sam faltered and didn’t seem to know how to put it.

“We had to burn them,” Dean interjected. “It’s what you do with bodies of people who were violently killed. Kinda keeps them from becoming what we hunt.” 

Michael looked at the pouch. “And this is...”

Sam took over. “That’s some of the ashes. The only part we could be sure was that it was in fact your friends. As for…”

Michael got the gist. For reasons he didn’t really wanted to find out, there had been no way to tell who was who. He felt his stomach roll at the thought but took the pouch from Sam, reverent and grateful nonetheless. “Thank you,” he said voice little more than a whisper.

“Um,” Sam began again. “Do you want us to…”

“No,” Michael said staring at the pouch. “Stay. You’re the reason I even have a little bit of my friends now. The only reason I know what happened to them.” _The reason why I’m me again._

Sam stepped back and Michael turned back to face his friend’s grave. 

Kneeling once more on the cool ground, he loosened the tie-string enough to widen the opening. He passed his free hand over the engraved ridges of her name, eyes closed a moment, then turned the pouch on its side and let the ashes fall. The fine dust sprinkled to the grass below, some of it carried in the Spring breeze.

It was a full minute before he rose from his position and turned to face the Winchesters. Sam placed a hand under Dean’s arm and helped him move carefully away from the tree. 

“A weeks’ bed rest would do you a world of good, you know,” Michael chided and eyed Dean up and down. “You look like—”

Dean’s face tensed. “If you say warmed shit—”

“He’d be painfully accurate,“ Sam cut in, as he squeezed Dean’s arm. “Don’t worry. I’m doing all the driving. All he’ll be doing is resting, until I get us to our friend’s in North Dakota. Motels get expensive.”

Michael nodded reluctantly and walked along side Dean and Sam as they headed to where their cars were parked, not ten yards away. They fell into a comfortable silence, Dean’s more an attempt to focus on staying upright long enough to reach the car, no doubt.

“So what’s next for you?” Sam asked, helping to lean his brother against the Impala. “You still thinking of taking some time off?

Michael nodded. “Just for the rest of this semester. My heart’s just not in it right now. My Mom’s friggin’ beside herself at the prospect of me coming home for a while. I think she put my race car sheets back on my bed,” he said with a grimace.

“It’s a, what, ten hour drive?” Dean asked.

Michael looked down at the keys in his hands. “If I go in one shot, but I’ve got some stops to make along the way.” He looked knowingly at the Winchesters, clutching the still mostly full ashes’ bag in his hand.

“You’re going to do it? Stop and see all the family members of your friends?”

It was something they’d talked about in the wee hours of the night while Dean had slept. Occasionally, the hunter even made it through the night without waking up to nightmares. Michael hadn’t asked about those. It wasn’t his business. What he had heard of the conversations between Martin and Dean was enough to give him a few nightmares of his own.

“Yeah,” Michael said with a sigh. “I just want to see where they’re all buried. See their families. Tell them… I have no idea what I’ll tell them, just that their son or daughter was a good friend with bright futures.” He laughed mirthlessly. “God that sounds corny.”

“Nah,” Sam offered. “It sounds like you connecting with your friends through the ones who’d raised them. And that’s a lot considering what you’ve been through. Most would walk away and never want to look back.”

Michael nodded and looked at Sam. “Believe me, I thought about—hey!” he barked. One of Dean’s hands had inched under the cuff of his jacket, scratching at the skin below his palm. “None of that, man.” Sam reached over and flicked Dean’s hand off the bandages and Dean huffed, annoyed. “It’s bad enough you’re out of bed, but you rip those stitches open and you’ll end up in the hospital for sure this time.”

“I know, but can’t help it,” he whined. “They itch!”

“Wow, you fight demons, ghosts and monsters, but you’re letting a few stitches best you?” Michael teased. 

“He won’t do it again,” Sam assured, unaffected at Dean’s mutinous glare. 

Michael stepped up on the curb. “Just get him off his feet and _keep_ him off,” he said before looking at Dean. “The fact that you’re both about to hit the road…” he shook his head. “Gotta admit, I’m not too thrilled.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Dean held out his hand and Michael shook it. “I’ve had worse.”

“Yeah, somehow that doesn’t help.” Michael turned and shook Sam’s hand next. “Make him take care of himself?”

“Right,” Sam cast a side-long glance at Dean. “Thanks. For saving his life.” 

Michael grinned. “It’s kinda my future job, remember?” Then his face took on a more serious tone. “Besides, that goes both ways; in addition to being alive, I have closure. I just wish I could offer that much to my friends’ parents.”

~o~

Once inside the Impala, Dean got comfortable. It was a hard enough task that made him take a while to realize that they still hadn’t moved. 

Sam sat behind the wheel, hand on the key in the ignition, mouth pressed in a tight line, shoulders bunched. 

Here we go. “What?” Dean asked, annoyed at the stillness, the silence.

“You ever going to tell me how you figured out it was a demon even though he did his damnedest to hide from us?” Sam finally looked at Dean.

“Told you, it was a hunch.”

“Right. A hunch drove you to make a devil’s trap.”

“You were all gung hoe on the whole angry spirit thing, despite my hunch. So I acted alone. It was a precaution. Can we just go now?”

Sam didn’t nod, he just looked resigned. He turned and started the car. “Your meds are in the glove box. I’ll wake you when it’s time to take them.”

Dean sighed in his seat, wanting to disappear inside the upholstery. His wrists were pounding at the rhythm of his heart, making his fingers feel like swollen balloons at the tip of his hands. The road looked impossibly long. “We good?” he asked over the deafening sound of Sam’s pout. Because, damn! he needed something to _be_ good after having had his nerves exposed raw by Martin.

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam whispered, his focus on the road. “We're good.”

The sound of Led Zeppelin filed the car, as much as to kill the silence as a peace offering. Dean willed himself to relax, allowing visions of blood and pain to be replaced by the blurry images of trees passing by.

“You know,” Sam said hours later, like their conversation had ended just then. “Anytime you wanna tell me who Alastair is, we’re good on that too, okay?”

It was meant as support, Dean told his speeding heart.

It was meant as honest concern.

But still his heart beat erratically, still his brow filled with sweat and his mouth with bile. Sam had heard.

Dean opened the glove compartment, looking blindly at the orange pill bottles there. He opened one at random and dry-swallowed four pills. 

He was seriously overdue for some good luck. Four pills of whatever the hell he’d taken would certainly be enough to knock him out until they reached Bobby’s.

End. 

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes by Jackfan2...
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> To our artist: you went so far beyond any vision I had for the artwork. The first drafts I saw had my jaw dropping in amazement and I couldn’t be prouder over your offering to this story. You’ve impressed me greatly and I know for a fact that when you can impress a fellow artist, you’ve achieved something amazing in your output. I’m no artist, but my co-writer is and we couldn’t be more pleased with how the results of your insight have matched perfectly the tone and construct of we gave you. Considering how raw that early draft was, the fact that you saw this… clearly you saw in those words more than we anticipated and we had our hopes set high. You not only achieved those hopes but exceeded them. Thank you so much for your time, talent and skill and gifting us with them.
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> What can I say?! I'm just... amazed. You made something we could all be proud of and as a leader, you captained it like any good master and commander should, and then some. You excelled in your enthusiasm and determination to see this community become better than the anyone had anticipated. The presence of gen big bangs have been growing and it’s all because of your hard work and perseverance. Isn’t it amazing what can be achieved through effort and sweat equity?! Thank you for caring enough to see this through each and every time!
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> And some notes by myself...
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> I want to acknowledge the wonderful work that Caluk did. Honestly, when I first saw the cover she’d done for us, my jaw dropped. You’ve seen it. You know what I’m talking about (and if you haven’t, you really have no idea what you’re missing). It’s simply gorgeous! And after that, there was all the rest. Ghosh! We were like two kids at Christmas morning, opening one awesome present after the other!
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> I also would like to thank Amber1960. Every single addition that you brought to this story, every single snag you point out, was precious and crucial to make this plot tighter, to make this story more fluent, enjoyable and all further away from the mess we started with. 
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> ~o~
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> A final word from us about the this story and its presentation:
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> [North Brother Island](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/North_Brother_Island,_East_River) is still there. The ruins of the old Riverside hospital complex are still there and, ever since we saw the haunting pictures posted in [this site](http://kingstonlounge.blogspot.pt/2011/01/north-brother-island-riverside-hospital.html), we were salivating to send the Winchester brothers there and mess with them.
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> The [Bowe Brothers](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bowe_Brothers) –Martin, Jack, Jim and Will- actually existed. They were a notorious group of criminals that, in between 1840 and 1860 committed over a hundred crimes in the NYC area, mainly the dockyards of the East River.
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> Typhoid Mary was really a patient at the clinic facilities in North Brother Island. She was quarantine there for so long (over two decades) that she ended up working there and becoming a nurse.
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> The gemmules references that Sam and Dean find in the old medical files are also based on a real theory, by Darwin, that was around in 1868. It was called [Pangenesis](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pangenesis) and it tried to explained heredity mechanics. Basically, he hypothesized that tiny particles called gemmules were passed on from parents to sons, carrying with them hereditary information (guess the guy wasn’t that far off, was he?).
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> Dean's rune, the one he carved in the souls of those he tortured in Hell, is depcited below. It represents 'Men'. we thought it would be a fitting way for Dean to remind those he turned into demons of who they truly were.
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> As for the story's presentation... we hope it didn’t become too confusing as we parted from the normal setting of chapter after chapter. Taking a page from those who know way more about this writing stuff than us, we decided to blatantly copy Mr. G.R.R. Martin’s style in the Game of Thrones series of books and we named each chapter after the character whose point of view was being explored at the time. It was a gamble. We hope it worked.
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> Thank you all for reading!


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